


Putting On Quite The Show

by Skalidra



Series: Earth-3 Storyline [12]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Broken Bones, Earth-3, Exhibitionism, M/M, Marks, Mirror Universe, Porn With Plot, Punishment, Revenge, Rough Sex, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kon-El is new to the Crime Syndicate's side team, and makes a move on Nightingale (Dick) that he shouldn't have. It doesn't go well for him, but Jason and Dick still decide to prove a point. It doesn't go well for them either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, remember that event I kept referencing all over the place, about Ultraman (Clark) breaking Dick's cheekbone? Well, I finally finished it. Here it is! It's also a middle piece for the Dick/Jason relationship, before the Jason/Roy starts, and a much earlier view of Kon-El as well. It was one of the very first things I ever started writing in this universe, so it's nice to finally be finished with it and putting it out. XD Enjoy!

"Who's the new kid?" I ask, sprawling back against the couch and tilting my head the direction of the hulking, muscled brute nearly lurking in the corner, blue eyes partially narrowed and his hands shoved into the pockets of jeans that barely fit him. Good legs, nice ass, black shirt with a really  _obvious_ Ultraman symbol stretched over more muscle than  _I_ usually like, and built thicker than I like too.

Blue eyes flick to me, and the kid — maybe like, sixteen? Seventeen? — sneers at me. I snort and grin back, arching an eyebrow and  _daring_ him to try coming over and trying to fuck with me.

Wally's leg bounces where it's laid over my knees, foot tapping against the arm of the couch, and I automatically snap a hand out and smack him in the thigh to get him to stop. He does, briefly, then his other leg starts tapping against the floor. Speedster energy, nothing like it. Wally's either riding high and incapable of being still or crashed out on a floor  _hard_ , with  _no_ stages in between. There is only asleep, there is no 'tired' for him.

"Clone," Wally answers with a quick — I mean  _fast_ — glance the way my head is tilted. "Kon-El slash Conner.  _Kryptonian_." Ah, he's Ultraman's new sidekick, the one who pretty much just popped up out of nowhere and just started showing up next to the big idiot without anyone saying anything about it. There was something about a section of the team, led by Tim, getting him out of one of Luthor's labs. I heard a bit about it, but never really asked, and none of the family thought it was worth telling me about, apparently.

Wally twitches, and then he's up and  _gone_ , and only months of practice around the speedster stop me from jumping or flinching. I stretch my legs out, watching the red blur from the corner of my vision as Wally circles the kitchen. I can see the cupboards opening and closing again, with only a few taps of noise. A couple of swats from various members of the 'team' stopped him just letting them slam closed again, especially after he broke one and Dick snapped it in half over his head in retaliation.

"You  _touch_ my Slim Jims I'll put a bullet in your knee," I call, leaning my head back against the couch and not looking over at Wally.

Everyone's got their own stash of snacks, and Wally's got a habit of digging into other people's whether his are gone or  _not_. There's a woosh of air and he's leaning over my shoulder, arms braced on the couch behind me and mouth wide in a grin.

"No you wouldn't," he says, and I tilt my head to look at him.

"You'll heal," I point out. "Try me."

"Can I have one if I get  _you_ one?"

"No. Eat your own damn snacks."

" _Reeeeddddd_ ," Wally whines, pouting, and I roll my eyes.

"You can have some of  _mine_ , Lightning," says a smooth voice, and Wally's head turns to look across the room. Out of the other half of my vision, I can see new-boy's head turn too. I resist for a second before following general consensus and looking over at the archway. "If you're willing to trade for it."

Dick's walk is eye-catching and breathtaking in all the normal ways, and I resist the urge to swallow on pure fucking automatic. It should be damn  _illegal_ to look that good in tights, and  _know_ it.  _I've_ got a bit of an immunity, extended exposure and all that crap, and so does Wally, but I don't have to look at new-boy to know he's tensing up and swallowing  _hard_. Dick's hips roll and sway with more grace than a guy should have, ever, and the confidence in it is easy to see. The smirk on his lips proves that he  _knows_ the way he looks, has for as long as I can remember, and  _likes_ it.

"Yeah? Trade  _what?_ " Wally asks, kind of suspiciously, straightening off the couch a little bit.

I smother a sigh as Dick, in his usual way, slides up way closer than most people would consider comfortable, leaning against the couch right next to Wally and down next to him. It just doesn't  _matter_ that Wally and I are used to his behaviors, Dick doesn't tone it down for  _anybody_ but Bruce and a few of the other high members of the Crime Syndicate.

Dick's head tilts, mimicking the long, slow drag of his gaze down Wally's also-in-costume frame that's hidden behind his domino mask. "How about a kiss?" he nearly whispers, smirk turning full on  _wicked_. I roll my eyes again and let the sigh out, pushing off the couch and shaking my head.

"I'm  _straight_ , N, and you  _bite_." I circle around the couch, heading for the kitchen because Wally's eternal quest for food made  _me_ hungry.

Dick scoffs. " _Labels_. I don't bite  _that_ hard; promise not to make you bleed. Much."

"Red," Wally calls after me, "your brother's being a perverted, manipulative,  _bastard_ again."

"He's not my brother," I refute automatically, crouching down and retrieving one of my Slim Jims from the back of the cupboard I stash them in, behind a bunch of pots people rarely use. Useless, totally not a secret, but it at least points out that I don't want them touched. "Deal with him yourself you food whore."

"I stocked up  _yesterday_ ," Dick says in a low purr. "I've got all the good stuff,  _Lightning_. The stuff that just  _explodes_ on your tongue."

I shake my head as Wally makes a choked little noise and stand back up, checking the cabinet closed with my hip as I turn around. I lean back against the counter and tear the packaging open, watching this  _train wreck_ occur. Dick knows  _everyone's_ weak points, Wally's just happens to be really,  _really_ easy to exploit. The poor bastard will do just about anything for good, tasty, food.

"What are your terms?" Wally asks flatly, jaw setting in a way that I  _know_ means he's ready to deal and probably about to do something he'll regret, because he never seems to learn that making deals with Dick is a  _bad_ idea unless you know what you're doing and cover all your loopholes.

Dick makes a pleased noise and leans a little closer to Wally, who holds his ground. I bite into my snack. "Alright… How about I get to  _mark_  you, Lightning?"

For a second I think Wally's about to be  _really_  dumb — like dumber than usual — and just agree without actually wondering what that means. Then his lips thin and he gives Dick a sideways look.

"Mark  _hooooowwwww?_ " he demands.

Dick's lips curl up to reveal teeth in what's almost a grin. "I want to  _bite_  you, since you  _mentioned_  it. One bite per snack, Lightning?"

I can't help snorting, but neither of them even glance at me. I glance briefly up at new-boy off in the corner, who's staring with wide eyes and a clenched jaw. I'm not around here much — I've got my own job and apartments, after all — but clearly new-boy hasn't been around enough to gain any kind of immunity to the force of nature that is Dick when he  _wants_  something, or just thinks he can fuck with you. Poor bastard. He'll learn fast, or Dick will twist him every which way until he learns  _slow_. Should be fun to watch either way.

Wally eyes Dick, and then gives a rapid nod. "Deal, Nightingale." He sounds determined,  _ready_ , and I take another bite. Wally, on the other hand,  _never_  learns.

Dick takes one step in, one leg between Wally's as he shoves his shoulder back to angle him flat against the back of the couch, back bending a little and hands gripping the edge of the couch to balance himself against Dick. My  _so_ -not-a-brother's hand slips over the reinforced red and yellow tights covering Wally, over the lightning bolt on his chest and then up to touch the edge of where his costume ends, along his throat.

"How many do you want?" he asks, angling just right and leaning over Wally to dwarf him even though our speedster is tall and skinny, just as tall as I am and three inches higher than Dick. Wally swallows thickly, maybe  _just_  realizing the kind of trouble he's gotten himself into. "Or should I just keep going until you're  _finished?_ "

_There's_  Dick's other undeniable skill. Making  _everything_  he says sound dirty or intimate in some way. Phrasing things vaguely, or in  _just_  the right words so it sounds like all he's talking about is sex and you couldn't be blamed — if you were blindfolded or just straight up blind — for thinking that he was just spouting dirty talk at someone if all you heard were his out of context lines.

"Fivveee...?" Wally says, sounding really unsure, and Dick's almost a grin slims down to a smaller smirk that manages to look pretty damn  _scary_  even to me. Wally, the  _dumbass_.

Dick tugs at the edge of Wally's costume, pulling it down his throat an inch or so and bracing his other hand against the back of the couch, between Wally's side and his arm. "You pull away,  _I'm_  not counting it," he warns, and I roll my eyes as he leans forward and down, fitting his mouth against the left side of Wally's throat. He waits  _just_  a second, for the speedster to inhale, and  _bites_  down.

Wally's right hand flashes up in a blur of red, landing on Dick's back and he gives a sharp, startled cry of pain. "Holy  _fuck_ ," he nearly snarls, after a second. "You've got  _demon_  teeth, N!"

"You're an idiot," I comment, mockingly saluting him with my Slim Jim before taking another bite of the snack. Wally's teeth bare, his head tilts back, and I look over at new-boy.

His mouth is legitimately open a little bit, eyes round, shell shocked, and more than a  _bit_  glazed with lust. It's pretty damn hilarious to me, and the little startled  _jerk_ he gives when Dick lets go and Wally  _groans_ , nearly panting, is even better. Wow, clearly the new-boy has led a sad little sheltered life and not been privy to any of the Crime Syndicate's wild activities. Also, he definitely hasn't been here long enough to know that sex and sex-like games are about as common among our group as threats of violence and murder. It's really just a thing we do; after all we're all pretty used to getting what we want, when we want it. Sex is even more valuable as a commodity than money or favors a lot of the time.

Like now. Dick doesn't give half a fuck about money, we're goddamned  _Waynes_ , and he can probably talk anyone into doing just about anything for him so favors aren't really useful for him either. Dick takes his payments in people letting him do whatever he wants to do to them. Most of the time, it doesn't hurt too badly.

Wally shouts some curse that's said too fast for me to decipher, hand blurring a little but staying at Dick's back. Wally knows better than to try pushing Dick away, so it's probably just there on the off chance that Dick goes for his jugular. Not that Dick  _would_.

Why kill a plaything when it keeps falling right back into your hands?

I lean a little more securely against the counter, seeing the flicker of Dick's teeth — just a little stained with blood, so Wally's probably not going to have to wash any of those same stains out of his tights — as he pulls back a bit. He doesn't wait for Wally to say anything, just leans down a little bit and bites into the skin right beneath the left side of his jaw. This time Wally just grunts and shakes a little bit, though I don't know if that's real reaction or him just vibrating a bit because he's trying hard not to move.

I can see Dick roll the flesh between his teeth, breaking blood vessels and dragging a quickly blackening bruise to the surface of Wally's skin. Right at the front, where everyone will see it for the next couple of hours until it fades. Increased healing abilities must come in handy.

I wonder if Dick is going to call Bruce and get Wally pulled in to fight so the whole Crime Syndicate will see the marks. I don't think any of them would particularly care, in fact I think Quick would pretty much just burst into laughter and mock his sidekick for at least a week… which might be exactly why Dick would do it. Dick does  _love_ to see people squirm, especially when he's the one making them uncomfortable.

Christ, Dick is going to have so much fun teasing new-boy when he really notices him.

There's that whole Clark and Bruce rivalry thing going on so I doubt that Dick would actually let the poor fuck do anything to him, but oh the kid is going to end up with  _so_ many boners it really shouldn't be funny. But it is. I'm going to laugh my ass off. Hey, Clark should be thanking Bruce; Dick's gonna teach his sidekick some control.

I'm so entertained by new-boy that I almost miss Dick leaning back to a straighter position, and the wicked smirk still on his lips. He licks his lips, running his tongue over his teeth, and makes a satisfied little noise. Wally, still half-pressed over the couch, glares up at him.

"That's—"

Dick gives a  _sharp_ smile, one hand snapping up to trace along the bites, and Wally shivers and slaps his hand away at a speed I almost can't see. "I'm bored with your neck," Dick announces, unphased by the rebuttal. His hand rises again, tapping against the lightning bolt emblem. "Take your top off."

"What part of  _straight_  did you  _miss,_ N?" Wally nearly gasps, and Dick shrugs.

"Does it  _look_ like I'm trying to  _fuck_ you, Lightning?" he asks in a purr, leaning back down. "But you made a  _deal_ with me, and I'm through with your neck. If you want food, you give me access to your torso."

"How do you keep  _falling_ for this?" I ask incredulously, from my spot at the counter.

"Or I can just slice open the parts I want to bite you at," Dick offers, leaning down into Wally and totally ignoring me. "It's only  _two_ bites, you can fix a couple of rips easy."

Wally glares a little harder, the hand on Dick's back moving to his shoulder to keep him pushed away a little bit. "Nope, absolutely not,  _no!_ I  _need_ this suit, N, I'm not letting you tear holes in it just because you don't like the  _awesome_ skin on my neck. No, shoo, back devil creature!"

Dick grins and leans in instead, ignoring Wally's hand at his shoulder — Dick's upper torso is a lot stronger than Wally's — as he leans down and speaks into his ear. It's barely even a whisper, and it's the wrong angle for me to read his lips, but by the face Wally makes I know  _exactly_ what he's saying. Dick's describing the food he has in that voice of  _sin_ he's perfected, weaving magic with his words and pretty much conning Wally into enough of a blissful, orgasmic state that Wally will do whatever the hell he wants.

"Just  _do it_ ," Wally spits, eyes blown wide, and I shake my head and throw the last of the Slim Jim into my mouth.

Wally's so damn  _predictable_ , and so totally  _useless_ at saying 'no' to Dick.

I mean, hardly anybody can say 'no' to Dick with any real success — I count myself a proud member of that small group — but still, you'd think Wally would at least have gained up a  _little_ resistance to his manipulations by now. It's not like Dick ever really changes his tactics, not that he  _needs_ to. Dick's pretty irresistible all on his own, no need to change things around and try and come at people from different directions when they're never going to figure out your first approach.

The costume rips with a familiar sound, and I watch Dick flip the knife in his hand and tuck it back away with practiced ease. I didn't notice him pull it out — I was watching Wally, not Dick — and it's probably likely that no one saw him put it back away but me.

Or… actually. Scratch that. A kryptonian and a speedster? If they were paying attention — alright, not  _that_ likely — it's totally possible that they could see where Dick stores the knife, and how he put it away. But they'd have to be paying attention, and Wally is kind of…  _busy_ , while new-boy is a little too hot and bothered. Dumbasses.

Wally gives a startled shout as Dick shoves him backwards across the couch, pinning his hips down with the press of his leg while he arches Wally's back over the edge of the couch. I roll my eyes and head to the fridge for a drink of some kind, crouching down in front of it to take a look at what's inside. Let's see… Beer. Yeah, beer sounds good.

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," Wally shouts, and I pull the beer out and turn back around, swinging the fridge closed and looping around the kitchen to get a better angle on the two of them as I reach into a pocket of my jacket and retrieve a bottle opener. I lift one hip onto the counter, taking a drink, before raising my gaze back to the idiot and my not-a-brother.

Dick is just pulling back, licking blood off his lips — which gives them a  _ridiculously_ good looking tint that just shouldn't be a thing — from a nasty looking bite on the exposed slice of flesh along Wally's side, the slice of his costume showing the skin about halfway up his ribs on the right side down to his hip. Dick bit down higher on his ribs, and I stifle a wince. That's a  _really_ tender spot on just about anybody. Still, Wally got himself into this, so he deserves it. You just  _shouldn't_ bargain with Dick, it doesn't turn out well for anyone but… Well, I can get away with it sometimes, Bruce gets away with it  _most_ times, Tim  _knows_ better than to take any deal not in his favor…

Dick's right hand is flat against Wally's chest, holding him arched back and forcing his skin taut against the muscles and bone beneath. His left hand tugs at the edge of the rip in the costume, pulling it down, and I roll my eyes as I realize what Dick's going for. His back bends in a way that really shouldn't work in those kind of positions, teeth flashing, and Wally recognizes what I already knew  _way_ too late.

"That'snotmytorso, N!" Wally protests in a voice that's pretty much just a rush of syllables — the only reason I understand it is I've listened to way too many of his superspeed rants — and just barely manages to get it all out before Dick's teeth sink into his hip, right on top of the bone. " _Fuck!_ "

I snort and take another drink of the beer. It's not real good tasting, but I'm not stupid enough to have hard alcohol when there's a Kryptonian bastard in the room that I don't  _know_. Beer won't affect me unless I overdo it, and I'm only intending to have the one.

Wally twitches, spazzes out for a second, hands clenching down on the couch and barely vibrating as he tries — I assume — really hard not to shove Dick away from him. His teeth are bared and clenched, muscle straining tight and that  _must_ sting like a bitch because that bite underneath his jaw is a pretty nasty color already.

"You know," I start, with a grin, and Wally's hand flashes up to point at me.

"Shut up, Red!" he snaps, and I can't help laughing. Dick joins me after a second, once he's let go of the flesh he's mauling and is straightening back up. He leans down over Wally, leaning on his chest and smirking down at him.

"I could go for  _more_ , Lightning," he says smoothly, and Wally makes a choked little noise.

"No! Get off me and keep your demon teeth away, N!"

"But you know, I have these chocolate—"

Wally is  _gone_ , Dick is sliding back from a shove delivered too fast for me to really follow — but somehow still totally keeping his balance and making it look purposeful — and I snort and shake my head. Dick straightens up like nothing happened, smoothing hands down the lines of his costume and making his way over to me.

"No," I preempt, as he slides over and in front of me, his arms bracing against the counter on either side of me. Anybody  _else_ boxing me in like this would get a fist to the jaw — at best; I like my  _space_  — but Dick is an exception to that rule, like every other rule I have. I trust Dick not to hurt me too badly, and not without talking me into letting him first. He knows I don't take shit from  _anyone_ , not even him.

"Oh,  _Red_ ," Dick says in a purr, lining himself up against my chest, and I only move to get my arms out of the way so I can still lift my beer to my mouth. He's long and lean against me, just what I like in  _all_ the right ways — I blame Dick that I ever got these kind of preferences in the first place, attractive  _bastard_  — and totally  _insane_ on top of it.

Well, not really. Dick goes after what he wants, it's as simple as that. He just doesn't let morals, or decency, or anything else stand in the way of him getting it. He's brilliant, and he's  _ruthless,_ and apart from Bruce he's probably the most dangerous man I've ever met. I'm  _really_ glad he's pretty much on my side.

"I said no, Nightingale," I repeat, and he makes that goddamn  _face_. The one where he  _pouts_ and bites his bottom lip and hangs his head just a little like he's a kid and you just kicked his puppy. It's a good thing he's got his mask on, or I'd be  _fucked_. Maybe even literally even though I don't do  _that_ either.  _Damn_  those eyes of his. I swallow, and carefully turn my eyes up towards the ceiling so I don't have to look at the manipulative bastard. " _No_."

He makes this soft little whining noise, my free hand clenches against the counter but I don't look down at him, and then he sighs. Like I'm disappointing him in  _every_  way, and if I wasn't so sure that he was just playing me I'd be dropping to my knees and doing any and everything he wanted just to make him happy again.  _Bastard_  shouldn't be able to get so close to winding me around his fingers like this, but at least I know I'll probably never actually do any of it when we're around other people. It's just the  _eyes_ I can't handle. The family doesn't count as other people, they're all as helpless under Dick's puppetmaster fingers as I am with the exception of Bruce… sometimes.

"Alright," he says, dejectedly, very  _slowly_  pushing off me with one hand and pulling back. I keep my gaze turned away until I hear the small clicks of his heeled boots — and what guy  _wears_ two inch heels on  _purpose_? Stupid question. Dick, of  _course_  — from farther away on the cement floor. Then I risk looking back down.

Dick's crossed over to one of the cabinets against the wall, opposite the kitchen, filled with DVDs and framing either side of the TV set up in front of the couch. The glass cover is swung open, and he's leaned down — with  _only_ his torso of course — and rifling through the titles. I roll my eyes and return to my beer for a sip before lowering my hand and digging my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans.

' _You hiding?'_ I send to Wally, as a text. I get an answer back pretty much instantaneously.

' _Yes. I like my side and he's going to *bite* me again if I stay in there.'_

I smother down a grin and glance up at Dick. What I see almost makes me laugh out loud, and the grin breaks free. Oh, poor  _bastard_. New-boy is approaching Dick, not an ounce of caution in the way he's moving or even a bit of wariness. His gaze is fixed down at Dick's ass —  _that_  part I get, and I know Dick bends like that on  _purpose_  — and only raises a little, along the arch of my mostly-ally's back and to his neck, as he gets to within a foot or so. Dick pretends not to notice him, and  _damn_  I think new-boy actually falls for it.  _Idiot_.

_'It's safe,'_  I send back to Wally, and then follow it up with;  _'Have N and the Kryptonian brute been introduced yet?'_

A second later Wally is standing at my side, and I raise one hand in a shushing gesture as his mouth opens. I point over at Dick and new-boy, and then make a vague gesture at my ear with the hand that's holding my phone and then flick my gaze down at the phone. Super-hearing, and there is  _no_  way I'm risking fucking this up by saying anything out loud.

Where Wally gets his phone from I honestly don't know, but then he's sitting up on the counter next to me with it in his hands and my phone is buzzing in my hand with the notification of a new message.

_'No! You think he's dumb enough to try what he's *totally* trying right now?'_  I cock my head towards Wally and give him a 'really?' expression, and a nod. Wally's fingers are a red blur over the keypad, and his mouth is a thin line.  _'You think we should warn him?'_

_'Fuck no, this'll be hilarious,'_  I answer, and Wally shoots me a wide grin that looks just a little cruel. Yeah, no one likes Kryptonians.

The best part is that it's all his own fault. All you have to do is see Dick in combat,  _any_ combat, to know he's a ridiculously talented  _killer_. What kind of moron ignores that and takes him at face value? Sure, the talk around Dick might be that he'll sleep with anything that moves, that he's a whore or a slut and that all you have to do is talk to him to get him in bed — or against a wall — but people are  _idiots_. Dick takes what he wants, but  _only_ what he wants. If he doesn't want you, you're damn well not going to touch him without suffering for it. Watching people learn that lesson is always amusing as hell, and watching a muscle bound  _idiot_ Kryptonian learn it is going to be  _hilarious_.

This should be good.

New-boy — Kon-El — takes a step closer, and Dick deigns to notice him. He straightens up and turns, shutting the cabinet behind him and leaning back against the wood and glass with a smirk. New-boy steps too close to be safe anymore, one thick arm rising to press his forearm against the glass, his other hand coming forward to touch Dick's hip.

' _He doesn't like that hand, right?'_ I get from Wally, and I echo his grin with one of my own.

Dick doesn't even twitch, just raises his left arm to wrap around the shoulder of the Kryptonian dumbass, gloved fingertips curling through short black hair as his smirk gets just a little wider, tossing his head so his neck bares and arches for just a moment. He's taller than Kon-El is, especially in the heels, but the careful arch of his back keeps him a little lower, so they're a little more even in height. New-boy's hand tightens a little bit, slips back to cup Dick's ass, and I can nearly  _feel_ Wally's horror next to me. To anyone who knows Dick, the tiny upward curl of the smirk is a blazing neon sign that screams:  _you've gone too far_.

I'm pretty sure that Kon-El says something, because Dick grins and I focus down on his lips to read him as he replies, " _Is that right?_ "

Wally and I share one brief glance in the pause before Dick's hand tightens in the short strands at the back of new-boy's neck and he leans back in a way that's  _too_  graceful an arch of movement, one knee coming up and nailing Kon-El neatly in the crotch. I wince, Wally cringes, and new-boy bonelessly folds over onto Dick with a noise pretty close to a keen for someone that heavily built. Dick pats the back of his head and then steps to the side, reversing their positions and slamming Kon-El back against the cabinet. It rattles a little bit, and Dick's smile is sharp and  _vicious_  as he straightens to his full height, his right hand — hidden between them until now — glowing green with what I'm pretty damn sure is a flat piece of kryptonite woven between his knuckles. Fuck,  _ouch_.

Dick's back is to us, and whatever he says is too quiet for me to hear, but Kon-El sneers and glares at him. Poor, suicidal,  _bastard_. Dick's kryptonite-laced hand snaps forward and Kon-El goes  _really_ pale — impressive considering he's got that normal Kryptonian tan — really fast as that hand closes over his crotch, fingers squeezing in. I can see the edge of Dick's smile, and I can see his other, free hand coming forward to play over the Kryptonian's arched, strained, throat. His nastier fingers tighten for a second as one of Kon-El's hands rises to push at his chest, and new-boy backs the hell off and flattens back against the cabinet, chest heaving.

Dick leans forward, speaking directly into Kon-El's ear, and the Kryptonian nods several times, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut. I see his mouth come apart long enough to say, " _Alright."_

Dick lets him go,  _obviously_  tucking the kryptonite away into one of his hidden pockets, and turns his back to stalk his way across the room towards Wally and me. New-boy slides to the floor, glaring but looking fairly traumatized and in a fair amount of pain too. Pretty much the classic reaction to Dick backing someone off; new-boy got off pretty easily actually. I've seen Dick do a lot worse for a lot less.

I tuck my phone away as Dick shoots Wally a small smirk and then turns and steps up against me, leaning his back up against my chest and laying his head against my shoulder. I resist the urge to draw in a sharp breath at all of that lean muscle pressing back against me, but I know Dick can hear the hitch in my breathing anyway. His left arm rises and loops around the back of my neck, and his right comes up to snag the beer from my hand with practiced ease. I give an annoyed huff, but don't try and reclaim it.

I try not to watch the way his lips purse around the neck of the bottle, but that's  _always_ a lost cause. The little sound he makes, hips pressing back into mine as he arches just a little bit, makes me swallow and close my eyes for a second, holding down every desire that Dick's presence fans to life in my chest and gut. He shifts, letting the beer drop down, the gloved fingertips of his left hand tracing patterns against the back of my neck.

"Give me your phone," he demands, and I snort without thinking about it.

"Use your own," I tell him flatly, and he makes a faintly irritated sound and holds the beer back in my direction. I take it back, tilting it up into my mouth, and then nearly spit it all over the room when Dick's hand is suddenly in my pocket, fingers stroking parts I really wasn't ready to have touched. "What the  _fuck_ , N?!" I snarl, choking on beer and almost shoving him away before his hand leaves my pocket. With my phone.

"Yours is more entertaining," he says with a smirk, tugging at the hair on the back of my neck and leaning back against me a little more securely. I snarl down at him, and then watch with a bit of dismay but no real surprise as Dick unlocks my phone without missing a beat and navigates over to contacts, clicking into Owlman and raising it to his ear.

I take another drink.

" _Red Hood,"_ Bruce says a moment after the phone picks up. " _I'm busy, what is it?"_  I wince, but Dick only smiles.

"Hey, Owlman," he says, and I can nearly  _feel_  Bruce's momentary confusion and then that thought that's  _way_ too common when people deal with Dick. ' _Why am I surprised?_ '

" _Hello, Nightingale. What can I do for you?"_ Bruce, probably more than anyone else, knows there's no point fighting or refusing Dick unless it's important. Just let him do what he wants, and you probably won't end up on his list of people that need to get  _fucked_ up.

"Well," Dick starts, smile slipping to a smirk, "I just wanted to let you know that if you get a call from Kal-El, his brat  _deserved_ it."

I can picture that  _look_ Bruce gets. The one where he's thinking of impending headaches, trouble, and needing to deal with the other idiots in the Crime Syndicate. Of all the  _trouble_ one of us just caused him. " _What did you do to him?"_ is what he asks, tone already heavy with resignation.

Dick glances over at Kon-El, who recoils a little bit under his smirk but with that 'I'm totally not afraid of you' glare that isn't fooling  _any_ of us. "He's not even bleeding," Dick answers, leaning his head back against my shoulder again, "and it's nothing permanent. So long as he keeps his hands off me, it'll stay that way."

Bruce sighs — my mental image rubs a hand over his eyes — and replies, " _Thank you for the warning. Try not to get in any more fights."_

"I don't start fights, I start  _slaughters_ ," Dick says indignantly, "and it wasn't a fight anyway."

" _Please attempt not to alienate my allies,"_ Bruce corrects, " _thank you."_ The line disconnects.

Dick's hand invades my pocket again to shove my phone back in — with  _way_ more touching than is at  _all_ necessary — and promptly steals my beer again. It's about at that point that Wally, who I really stopped paying attention to when Dick and Kon-El got too interesting, bursts into laughter. Not just giggles, or snickers, but full-on howling, shaking laughter as he pretty much collapses on the countertop. I give him a weird look, Dick's head turns but he's still just smirking, and beyond Wally Kon-El is still hunched over on the ground against the cabinet, but looking up with a glare and bared teeth.

"Finally snapped, Lightning?" I ask over his laughing, draining the last of my beer and setting it off to the side.

It's a few decent seconds — and he's a  _speedster_ , so that's significant — before Wally calms down enough to answer me. "You were  _totally_ right, Red," he says, still laughing a bit, " _hilarious_."

Kon-El's snarl gets a little bigger, blue eyes a little more narrowed and murderous, and I drop my hand down to my jacket, fingering my own hidden, boxed piece of kryptonite. Every member of our  _family_ has one, just in case the rivalry things between Clark and Bruce ever gets too nasty. If the son of a bitch tries anything, I'll take him down. After Dick does, naturally.

Dick's fingers curl around my wrist, pulling it away from my kryptonite without even looking, and he shakes his head just a little bit. "Don't, Red. Kon's learned his lesson,  _hasn't he?_ " His grin is  _nasty_  in the 'someone's about to get hurt' way, and I let him move my wrist without a fight.

Kon-El gets to his feet, only leaning on the cabinet a little bit, and standing with his legs spread just a little bit. Probably some pretty tender bits down there; I  _know_  how strong Dick's legs are from experience. A lot of experience. Oh  _Jesus_ I didn't need those thoughts in my head right now.

"You're a fucking psychotic  _bastard_ ," Kon-El growls, and Wally falls off the counter in his laughing fit and smacks into the floor, degenerating into feeble gasps for air as he flickers in and out of superspeed. Dick ignores him.

"Sticks and stones," Dick says, drawing my captive arm around his waist and letting me keep it there as he lets go and slides his hand back to my thigh. I  _so_ don't need to be in the middle of a Kryptonian and Dick. Too late, oh well. "You want to take this one, Red?"

Oh  _great_.

I look over Dick's head to Kon-El, trying to ignore the feeling of Dick's muscles under my arm in the clench and release of breathing, and the totally  _intentional_ press of his ass back against my hips. No success there.

"Kryptonian doesn't equal better," I put simply, "and you should probably learn to judge someone based on how they fight, not what they look like, if you want to live more than a few weeks." Dick's hand strokes down my thigh, back up, and even through the armor padding I can feel it. I swallow.

Wally's up and moving in the next second, leaning against the cabinet next to Kon-El with a wide grin and flushed cheeks, one hand touching one of the Kryptonian's shoulders. "Dude,  _Kon_ , Nightingale is our  _leader_  when we actually work together. Did you really think he was just a pretty face,  _seriously?_ Human  _so_ doesn't mean weak, buddy, but if you  _really_ think it does you should totally bring that up to  _Owlman_ and see what happens." Kon-El snarls and Wally flashes off, circling the room and coming up to the side of Dick and me. "Hey, N," Wally starts.

"Go for it," Dick says, without even waiting for Wally to ask the question he's literally vibrating with, and our speedster gives a crow of victory and darts across the kitchen to the cabinets I know hold Dick's collection of snacks.

I just snort when Dick's hand digs back into my pocket, pulling my phone back out. He flicks to messaging — I start planning what I'm going to say to whoever he pisses off — and brings up a blank field, single thumb putting in the letters he wants without a hitch. Talents that come with having to send messages while moving across Gotham rooftops; all of us Owls are pretty much insanely good at texting without looking or fucking things up. It comes in handy in theoretically identity-revealing situations too.

' _Interested in frustrating him?'_ the message reads, when Dick's fingers tug at the hair on the back of my neck and pull my attention away from Wally's raid. Dick barely waits for me to read it, and doesn't wait for any kind of answer before erasing the words and starting again. ' _Your room is next to his. Super-hearing?'_

I nearly snort, and I lower my head — cautiously, because even though Dick is usually fine with me touching him, it's still better to be careful — to press my mouth against the side of his neck, hiding my smirk.  _Yes_ , I say into the side of his neck, only mouthing the agreement, and his fingers soothe over my skin.

' _I'll get Black Talon to keep an eye on our security, tell us when he goes to sleep.'_

I smother a second snort into Dick's neck at the thought of our younger 'brother.' Tim's probably the most ruthless of all of us, and the smartest too, much as that used to bite to admit. Replacement and I didn't get along for a long time, in that whole section of time where I pretty much either wanted nothing to do with the rest of the Owls or wanted to tear them apart piece by piece. Dick and Bruce talked me — and hit me — out of that stage, and Tim was surprisingly alright with the fact that I beat him into the ground, and stabbed him in the chest three separate times. These days the only one of all of them that still hates me is Damian, Bruce's little  _demon_ child that he stole out of Talia al Ghul's hands.

I might have shot and nearly killed him. What the little  _bastard_ doesn't appreciate is that if I'd wanted him dead he'd be  _dead_. He was just a distraction. Or maybe that's why he hates me. I don't know, I gave up on that little shit a while ago.

I watch Dick spell out a text to Tim, rolling my eyes and tightening the arm I have around his waist a little bit. ' _Black Talon, can you hack into the team's security cams?'_

I raise my gaze to Wally for a few seconds, watching him rifle through the cabinet in a blur of motion, before my phone vibrates with a new message and I look back down. Dick gives a small laugh.

' _Like I'm not already in. What do you want, Nightingale?'_ The fact that Tim doesn't even ask why Dick has my phone, or how he got it, really just solidifies that everyone knows Dick does whatever he wants. Good  _luck_ trying to stop him.

' _Mind telling us when Ultraman's new boy goes to bed? And recording his reaction after?'_

Tim's reply comes  _before_ Dick even hits send, in a simple, ' _Done,'_ and I shake my head a little bit. Yeah, Tim's definitely hacked into all of our security already, and obviously with full control of the cameras too. If I didn't pretty much trust Tim not to fuck me over without a good reason, or on Dick or Bruce's orders, I'd be worried. Maybe I'm a bit of an outcast, or at least I was, but I'm still an Owl and that means loyalty to the family above all else. You don't shake that kind of conditioning off.

Dick gives a small, pleased sound that makes me shut my eyes for a moment, my arm tightening around his waist, and shuts my phone off. I grit my teeth to stop any kind of noise when he reaches back to tuck it away inside my pocket, a faint shudder twitching my shoulders forward as his fingers wander way more than they have a right to.

Well, way more than anyone  _else_ has a right to. Dick has his own set of rules for 'acceptable' behavior, mainly being that he can do whatever the fuck he wants to you, and you damn well better not touch without his permission unless it's involuntary movement. Most of the time I get away with touching, which makes things a little more bearable, and Dick doesn't usually get quite as touchy as this with people who he doesn't let touch him back. Even Dick only pushes people so far, most of the time.

Oh I can't  _wait_ until later. At least I  _know_ that I'm actually going to get to take all of this out on Dick later, no matter how far he pushes me. That's a lot more of a promise than Dick usually means with his teasing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the porn chapter! It is precisely what it sounds like. Enjoy, and I shall see you on Monday for some actual plot!

My back hits the wall, and I get about half a second to reorient and get a bit of breath back before Dick's mouth is on mine, body pressing up against me and his hands sliding up and underneath my shirt. I raise my arms, looping one around his waist to grab his ass and the other to press flat against his back, between his shoulder blades. He arches and  _rolls_ against me with his whole body, and I swallow down a thick moan. He bites down  _hard_ on my lower lip.

"Ow!" I taste blood — with Dick that's not a  _big_ surprise, but  _still_ — when I draw my lip into my mouth, prodding at the puncture wounds in it with my tongue. "I appreciate some  _warning_ , N."

"I want to  _hear_  you, Red," Dick says in a purr, pressing against me and dragging his still-gloved fingertips down my abdomen. "You hold anything back on me again and I'm going to bite a lot harder, get it?"

Okay, part of that is definitely just Dick being a possessive, power-hungry bastard, but the reminder is a good one too. This might be a lot of fun, but the end goal is mocking Kon-El, next door, with what he can't have. That's Dick's end goal anyway, I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity to have a night with him. It's not real  _rare_ , but getting the chance to fuck Dick is a good enough experience that I'm not going to stop and think about it just because sex with me isn't his primary reason for doing this. After all, this is fucking  _Dick Grayson_ , aka  _Nightingale_ , the envy and desire of pretty much everybody in the masked community, and I get to sleep with him just because.

Being used really isn't that big a deal, in fact it's a  _damn_  good trade as far as I'm concerned. It's not like I'm not using him right back.

"Fuck, alright," I gripe, feigning a lot more irritation than I actually feel. Sure, my lip hurts, but I've taken a lot worse from Dick while having sex before, and I'll probably take a lot more before we're done tonight. Dick's not gentle, ever, and I can take a lot more than most of his bed partners. He takes advantage of that.

Practice makes perfect, and I've been one of Dick's playthings for a long time. I don't mind.

Dick leans back in with a smirk, one hand dropping to flat out cup my crotch with not even the guise of subtlety, and I think better about repressing the sharp intake of breath. I give a low groan into his mouth, clutching him a little tighter to me and feeling the fire that Dick's been stoking all  _goddamn_ night rising to a fever pitch again. My hand clenches down on the muscle of his ass, pulling him up and against me, crushing his hand between our hips, and he laughs and squeezes down on me. Not as ruthless as he did to Kon-El, but tighter than most people would find comfortable. I push forward into it, feeling his muscle tighten and flex underneath his suit and beneath my arms.

A lot of the time, I wonder if being with Dick for so long turned me  _into_  a masochist, or if I was just always that, and the fact that I can stand a  _lot_  of pain thanks to my family is just a bonus that makes what I was always into easier to handle.

I raise the hand between his shoulder blades to the back of his neck, touching the start of the hook and zipper that will let me peel him out of the black and blue costume, and just let my hand rest there. Other things being with Dick taught me; don't  _ever_  make a move that's questionable, don't assume, just wait for him to tell you it's alright. Otherwise there's a lot of  _really_  nasty,  _really_  painful things he can do when he's this close. Dick taught me to  _always_  ask first, and I learned it pretty damn fast.

He pushes forward against me with a low, pleased, sound that sends a chill down my spine, and his teeth close fairly gently — by my standards — on my already abused lower lip. I hiss at the pain, but don't push him away. It's not so bad, really.

"Go ahead," he murmurs, when he lets go of my lip.

I slip the hook out and drag the zipper down, not pausing for even a second because delaying anything that gets Dick out of his clothes would be  _blasphemy_. He arches his back as the costume peels apart, raising his hand out from under my shirt to loop around the back of my neck and pull me down to his shoulder, grinding up against me. Mostly it's actually a nice move, even if it puts his teeth at my neck and my ear, because it means I can stare down along his spine and watch his skin come into view under my hand. Which makes me a little breathless, honestly.

Sure, Dick's got some scars, but we all do. I had a lot more before I got dunked in the Lazarus Pit and most of them got wiped off my skin, but I've been stabbed and sliced at enough times since then that I've got a collection going again. Why the fuck would scars matter? If  _anything_ it just makes him more attractive to me. Those scars are  _proof_ that Dick is  _dangerous_ , that he can take pain and deal it out with equal skill, and he's not  _anything_ like the picture people paint of him.  _Idiots_.

I got my ass handed to me enough times by Dick when I was just plain old Talon, I could never think of him as anything but dangerous. These days I can match him, if I really try, but why would I  _want_ to?

Dick's skin is just the right shade of not quite golden enough to be really tan, but not pale either; it's  _gorgeous_. In the suit he's this lean, deadly, beautiful arch of shadowed movement, but outside of it he's just  _perfect_. I'm biased though, there's no doubt about that. I was pretty much raised in awe of Nightingale — Talon, at the time — and when I took his place it only got worse. Then Dick was there, so amazing, and skilled, and  _beautiful_ , and how could I ever want anything else after him?

How the hell could anyone else compare to the killer I call family, even get to call mine sometimes?

I drag the zipper down to where it ends, just above his low back, and I watch the way his spine flexes and his skin shifts over his muscles. My mouth dries, and I can't help swallowing. I let go of the zipper and stroke my hand back up, along the curve of his spine, pressing my lips down around the edge of his now open costume to the skin on the back of his neck. He makes a pleased, purring sound and shoves me a little harder against the wall, pushing one leg between mine and sliding his hand back up my stomach before pressing forward hard enough with his leg to hurt most people. I make a small sound into the flesh of his neck, and it  _does_ hurt but that doesn't mean I don't like it.

He leans his torso back far enough to tug me forward off the wall a little bit by the lapels of my jacket, and then to pull it down and off my shoulders. I let go of him, pulling my arms back so he can drag it off of them and then toss it off to the side, across the room and next to the bed. I don't go anywhere without my jacket, I love it even if the only other member of our family who agrees is Dick. Bruce thinks my new costume is cheap looking, the little demon child agrees with most things his  _dad_ says, and Tim is totally impassive about it. Dick 'likes the rugged air' or something, I don't know. I just know that he likes it. If he didn't, it would have gotten set on fire a long time ago.

His hands drag up my chest, pulling my shirt up with them, and I close my eyes to let him pull the white t-shirt over my head. That he drops  _way_ more carelessly, and he all but rips the armoring I have underneath off of me; the straps actually sting a little from how hard he pulls and wrenches it away. The satisfied smirk and low  _wanting_ sound he makes are  _more_ than enough to make up for the slight pain, and to get me to reach forward for him and pull him back up against me. I lean down, drawing him up for a kiss with one hand at the back of his skull, and he goes along with it.

One of his hands drags up my stomach, and the other captures my right wrist — wrapped around his waist — and pulls it up between us. He pulls back a little bit, tongue pressing against the wounds on my bottom lip just hard enough to make them bleed again and make me wince. He raises my hand to his mouth, with just the slightest space between us, and my breath catches in my throat as his lips wrap around my two middle fingers — covered in my smaller black gloves, but still,  _fuck_  — and he gives a low moan around them and a grin. I can't see his eyes, which is a curse and a goddamn  _blessing_ , but my breath comes sharp and shallow as his teeth close on the gloves, right at the end of my fingertips, and he pulls back. Pulling my  _fucking_ gloves off with his  _teeth_.

That  _never_ stops being hot as  _all_ hell, and total death to any and all thinking not done by my cock.

I don't bother trying to hold back the shaky groan that leaves me — he'd just bite me for it anyway — and he tugs the glove the last bit off and drops it between us, giving me a  _wicked_ smile. "The  _other_ hand, Red," he requests in a sinful  _purr_ , and this is one of those times where I don't think I've ever moved as fast as I do in that moment.

I pull my hand off where it's cupping the back of his skull and forward, holding it in front of me. Dick releases my other wrist and turns to angle himself towards my other hand, his still-gloved — oh I hope to  _god_ he does the same thing with  _his_ gloves — fingertips sliding over my skin and around my wrists. I can't help another groan, and laying my head back against the wall, as his mouth slides down my other fingers, sucking for a moment before raking his teeth back down — I can still feel them even through the good quality material — and repeating the same trick. He gives a quiet sound of satisfaction, dropping my glove off to the side as I stare at his lips and his teeth and just  _want_.

I reach for him and he steps away, back three steps as I drop my hands to clench against the wall and try not to follow him like some kind of a lamb. It's  _hard_ , no pun intended.

Dick snaps his fingers — a little muffled by the gloves — and points down at the ground in front of him. "On your  _knees_ , Red," he orders, smirking.

Part of me rebels, brings a snarl to my mouth and flattens me back against the wall, and then Dick's head turns and arches his throat, the muscle under his suit tensing, shifting, and that part of me promptly throws its hands in the air and surrenders.  _Fuck_ it.

I step forward — what took him three steps takes me two — and only pause for a second before I sink to my knees in front of him. It's not totally comfortable for me, I really don't  _like_ being on my knees for  _anybody_ , not even  _Dick_ , but the pleased smile he gives almost makes it worth it. Almost. I might be a masochist, I might like most kinds of pain, but usually I don't let anybody else control me or top me. It's a sore point, I've had  _enough_ of being at anyone else's mercy. I'm not sure I trust anyone enough to let them do that to me, not even most of my family. Maybe someday, not  _yet_.

Dick leans down, taking my face between his hands and kissing me more softly than he usually does, and I can't help raising my hand to take a fistful of his hair, pulling him down and pushing my tongue forward. He gives a moan into my mouth and it makes me feel just a  _little_ better about being down here. Appearances, it's a  _show_ , Dick would never actually expect me to play the bottom for him, he knows better.

As much as Dick might shove and breeze past limits, he's got this innate sense of when something is actually too far. Whatever else he might do to others, Dick would never push that hard with me. We're family, it means more than that.

He pulls back just a little, pressing a kiss to my jaw and mouthing against my skin, " _Thank you, Jason."_ I swallow, and give a very small nod, letting go of his hair and soothing my fingers down his neck. Of everyone in our family I think Dick knows the most about the things I don't allow anymore. Before dying, before all of that  _bullshit_ , I was fine with getting fucked and being on my back or knees in front of someone else, but now?

I just  _can't_.

Dick doesn't straighten up all the way, and his fingers trail over my jaw and up to my mouth. I snarl at him again — there's no way in  _hell_ I'm sucking on his fingers and he  _knows_ that — but he only smirks and slides the other hand back through my hair, tugging just a  _little_ bit in a way that promises more if I do what he wants.

"I pulled  _your_ gloves off, didn't I?" he says in a purr, and his fingers prod at my lower lip. "Just  _bite_ , Red." My throat tightens up a little bit, and I stare up at him in some fucked up mixture of 'oh  _fuck_ no' and 'oh  _god_ yes.' Like most things with Dick, the  _yes_ wins out.

I swallow, thickly, and open my mouth just far enough for him to slip the very tips of his middle and ring fingers between my teeth before biting — carefully, Dick doesn't appreciate teeth anywhere but on his shoulders — down on the fabric hard enough to have a grip on it. He pulls his hand back, and I keep the tips of his glove's fingers in between my teeth as he pulls his hand out of it. I'm pretty damn sure I'm flushed — there's something about this that's so  _wrong_ and so damn  _hot_ it should be illegal — and I can feel Dick's other hand flex and tighten in my hair. His mouth opens just a little bit, a shaky exhale leaving him, and his tongue slips out to lick his lips in what I swear is an unconscious reaction.

I let the glove drop, swallowing again, and Dick's free hand slides back to take the place of the other one in my hair. I give a small shiver at the feeling of his skin against mine, closing my eyes for a second, and not having even  _half_ the reservations or any hesitation when his other hand presses against my bottom lip. I flick my eyes open, watching his face as I lean forward a touch and secure my teeth at the end of the glove. He starts to pull, the slight rasp of the glove's material loud in the near silence between us, and he fucking  _shivers_. I nearly let go of the glove, but end up just biting down a little harder instead to keep my grip, something hot and  _wanting_ burning deep in my stomach.

I wait a second before letting go of the second glove, once his hand is all the way out of it, and Dick  _leaps_ at me. Panicked instinct kicks in for a second, hands coming up to shove him away as my back hits the concrete, but then his lips are on mine and his hands are warm against my face and in my hair, and he's making this low,  _desperate_ noise that completely kills my breathing for a second. He's straddling my waist, his body pressed against mine and firm in all the right ways, and he's  _trembling_. I grip handfuls of the front of his costume instead of shoving him away, dragging him closer, and he gives something between a laugh and a moan, arching forward against me.

He jerks back after a second, just a little bit, one hand dropping to brace against the ground above my shoulder. " _Fuck_ , that…" He bites down  _hard_  on his bottom lip, a more obvious tremble shaking his shoulders. "That was  _gorgeous_ , Red," he whispers, staring down at me.

My breath catches again, and I let go of my grip on his costume with my left hand, raising it to his face, and he turns his head to nip at my fingers but leans into the touch, mouth open and his breath warm and wanting against my skin. I stroke over his cheek, and he tilts to drag my thumb into his mouth and  _suck_ , moaning.

"Yeah?" I ask, breathlessly and really with not much of a brain. It was… It was fucked up how hot it felt to be dragging Dick's gloves off with my teeth, but the way he looked at me,  _this reaction_. "Do I get a reward?" the snarky part of me asks, gaze focused on the purse of his lips around my thumb and the feeling of his tongue and that  _fucking_  warmth.  _God_  I never remember how  _amazing_  this is until I'm doing it again.

Dick pulls back and  _laughs_ , equally breathless. "A reward?" he purrs, leaning down and kissing me again, the hand in my hair tugging and arching my neck back, and I give a gasping groan into his mouth. He tugs a little harder, pulling his other hand up to stroke down over the bare flesh of my ribs before he pulls back from the kiss, giving another shaky exhale. "For that, Red?" he says, mouthing  _Jason_ against my skin. "You can do  _whatever you want_  to me tonight," he promises against my lips.

I nearly choke on air, all the blood rushes straight out of the rest of me and right to my cock, and I couldn't control the thick,  _shuddering_ groan that drags itself from my chest even if I wanted to. I tuck my head down against his shoulder, trying to get  _some_ kind of control back, flexing the hand still clutching his costume and moving the other to wrap around his waist and clutch him to me. I just, need a moment to come down from the  _high_ of those words.

"That's a hell of a promise," I say into the skin at his neck, nearly gasping, and he shifts and rubs down against me, a small sound coming through his teeth.

"Fair trade," he says in a quiet murmur. "I'll be thinking about that for  _months_ , Red, you've got no  _idea_  how you looked."

I will totally admit that the thought of Dick thinking about, fantasizing about,  _me_ , out of  _everyone_  he could be thinking about, for that long a time makes me proud as all hell. Also really,  _really_ , aroused. I swallow, slipping the hand on his waist up the slice of his exposed back and putting my teeth against his neck, just barely biting down. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but he shifts and  _groans_  against me anyway, arching into it and underneath the hand on his back.

His lips press briefly against my neck and then up to my ear, teeth tugging at my lobe for just a second before he exhales and lets go. "I'm going to look at you out there," he whispers in my ear, breath rushing hot over the sensitive skin of my ear, "among all the others, and I'm going to think of that." My breath catches again —  _fuck_ , what is this  _talent_  Dick has to make me stop breathing? — and he moans, just a little higher pitched than most of his other ones. "I'm going to picture you on your knees in front of me, with that glove between your teeth and my hand in your hair. Wanting it so  _badly_  but so unwilling to  _admit_  it. I'm going to  _love_  it, Red."

" _Christ_ , N," I gasp out, dropping my head back against the cement, against his hand, which pulls sharply backwards and I grit my teeth together and moan through them, my hand curling against his back.

"I'm going to think about letting you fuck me right there, right in front of all of them. I'm going to picture taking my nails and teeth to your skin," his right hand drags  _sharply_  down my ribs, nails digging into my skin like he's promising, and I jerk and strangle back another moan, "to tell them all that they can't  _have_  you because you're  _mine_. So you'll  _feel_  it every time you move, every time you even twitch. Would you  _like_  that, Red?"

"Which  _part?_ " I manage, and his fingers soothe back up what I'm pretty sure are scratches.

"Any," he answers, his teeth grazing along the skin of my throat, and I resist the urge to claw down his back in reaction to how fucking  _ridiculously_  aroused I am. He bites down on my neck,  _hard_ and  _vicious_ , and I give a startled shout and try and pull away, the hand in my hair doesn't let me.

"What the  _fuck?_ " I gasp, and he lets go of my skin, giving a pleased sound in my ear.

"I  _told_ you if you held any other noises back I'd bite a lot harder," he reminds me. "Don't, let me  _hear_ you." Well, at least that gave me a little bit of control back. Nothing like pain to make me focus, even if it hasn't actually made me any less hard.

"Take this off," I demand, pulling at the front of his costume, and he leans back a bit and gives me a satisfied smirk, our lips only an inch or so apart.

"Whatever you want, Red," he says quietly, and lets go and pushes up off of me to take the front of his Nightingale suit and drag it forward, off his arms. My left hand, on his back, slips down to his waist, and my right lets go of the suit and drops to rest on his thigh.

I watch, my breath back to being shallow and sharp, as his skin comes into view. He tugs his left arm out first, then his right, and I let my gaze wander his chest. He's all muscle, defined and pretty damn near  _perfection_ , and I  _know_ the kind of work that goes into his kind of physique. There's pretty much  _nothing_ hotter than watching Dick do one of his acrobatic routines, except,  _naturally_ , anything to do with fucking him. There's something  _gorgeous_ to me about watching him twist and use his body with all that  _deadly_ skill and precision. It's the same kind of screwed up attraction I get watching him in the middle of battle, where he's grinning and  _flying_  and clearly having so much  _fun_ because there's someone else's blood scattered over his suit and his face and he  _loves_ it.

I wait until his suit is hanging off his waist, down on my chest, before letting the hand on his thigh come up, tracing along the defined ridges of muscle and the lines of old scars. He makes a small, pleased sound and arches, tensing and turning himself from something pretty into something fucking  _amazing_ , his head falling backwards and throat arching just like his back, like he's on display. Which he is, always. Dick  _loves_ being looked at, being  _admired_ and  _appreciated_ , being the center of attention no matter where he is or who else is there. All of us Owls might serve Bruce, but Dick is what holds us together at the end of the day.  _He's_ the charismatic one, the one who knows just how to appeal to all of us to keep us working as a unit;  _he's_ what I came back for when everything else faded away or was torn out of my hands.

Just  _him_.

I take in a deeper breath and rest my hand at the center of his chest, letting myself feel the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing. He lowers his head to look down at me, head tilting a bit to the side and one hand rising to curl around the wrist of the hand on his chest, thumb stroking over my pulse point.

"Deep thoughts, little wing?" he asks, raising my hand to press his lips and teeth against my knuckles, then down against the underside of my wrist.

I swallow again, watching his mouth, feeling the curl of his fingers around my wrist and the flex of the muscles under the hand I have at his waist. "I'd do pretty much anything for you," I admit, and he pauses, then gives a slow smile and a gentle kiss to the side of my wrist.

"I know," he answers, simply. "For right now all I want from you is a good  _fuck_. So do  _that_ , and the rest of it can wait until later." His smile slips to a smirk, and he very briefly draws one of my fingers into his mouth, giving one hard suck and a graze of his teeth before he lets it go again. I suck in a sharp breath. "You've got a promise to cash in on, Red," he reminds me, mouth widening into a full on grin.

I push up off the ground, coming up against him and tugging my hand free to wrap around the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss, pouring everything I can't — will  _never_ — say into it. He meets me, one hand pressing up against my ribs, and I slide my other hand back to loop fully around his waist, keeping him close to me. His teeth come down on my tongue, just grazing and not actually biting, and I drag him just a little closer, totally unconcerned.

I drop my hands down to his thighs, looping my grip underneath, and I can feel him grin against my mouth. I draw my legs up at the same time as he shifts, sitting down fully on my hips and wrapping his legs back around my waist. I can't smother the groan at the feeling of his thighs clamping around my waist, and the  _way_ more important feeling of his ass settling firmly into place right on top of my cock.  _Christ_ I want out of these pants.

His left arm hooks around my torso, and his right over my shoulder, holding the back of my neck, and with a strain of muscle and a bit of effort — Dick's heavier than he looks; all that muscle does weigh something — I lift us both until I'm standing and holding him up around me. He never lets me pull away from the kiss. He makes a pleased sound and flexes his legs around my waist once I'm standing, and I take in a sharp breath at the feeling.

" _Fuck_ ," I say into his mouth, my hands clenching down on his thighs, and he pulls back just enough for me to open my eyes and meet the gaze hidden behind his mask.

"Yes please," he says with more than a little mockery, squeezing his legs in again and tightening the grip he has on the back of my neck. He tilts his head to the left, and I follow the indication to a stretch of open wall. The wall that my room shares with our new Kryptonian 'teammate.' Dick grins, and I can't help echoing his grin.

I walk us that direction, as Dick digs into one of the hidden pockets on his suit and pulls out a… two small packets of lube and a condom that I'm pretty damn sure is  _flavored_ , tucking them between two of his fingers before wrapping his hand around the back of my neck again. "You keep those in your  _suit?_ " I ask, as I press him up against the wall, and he laughs and leans forward to nip at my bottom lip. Seriously, I'm going to look like I got mauled, which to be fair I kind of  _did_.

"Best to be prepared for any," he pauses, breathing against my mouth and raking his nails across my back and neck hard enough to make me arch under the sting. "Situation."

I pin him up against the wall with my weight, freeing my hands to pull at the edge of his suit and get it down past his ass. It's kind of stuck there, with his legs around my waist, but at least that's something. He's not wearing anything underneath, of  _course_ , and I slip one hand down around his ass, lowering the other to his cock. He reaches down and grabs my wrist before I can touch him, and I shoot him a confused glance. He smirks.

"Hang on." His legs drop down from my waist — only my weight and the hand on his ass keeping him off the floor — and I watch in disbelief and complete incomprehension as he somehow wiggles his way out of his pants and boots with only his legs, flicking them aside with one foot and then returning his legs to wrap around my waist.

"How—"

"Hush," he answers without even waiting for my question, and leans in to give me a brief kiss with lips curved in an amused smirk. "I'm just that  _good_."

I shake it off, dismissing the seemingly impossible feat as just another moment where Dick completely disregards the laws of physics, and lean into him, returning my hands to his thighs. My stomach clenches automatically at the feel of his cock brushing it, and he gives a little wanting noise and pulls me closer. He leans his head forward into my shoulder, his lower hand sliding up, and I hear the rip of one of the thing he's got in his fingers. His right hand leaves my skin, and I wish I could turn my neck that far because I don't know what he's doing. There are only so many options, but still I wish I could see it.

He turns his head and bites down on my shoulder, and I tilt my head back and give a groan of pleasure, the thoughts wiped out for just a second. Until he gives a moan into the flesh of my shoulder, legs tightening around my waist, and I feel the brush of skin over the hand I have on his right thigh. I look down, but I can't see anything past his shoulders and his head, and I swallow, thickly.

"Are you…?" I get out, and he laughs, breathlessly, leaning back against the wall. His neck is arched, mouth slightly open and curved in a smile, and with him not leaning against me I can follow the track of his arm down his side and under the curve of his hip and ass. He  _is_.

I press hard up against him in reaction to the sharp flare of desire, letting my mouth come down on his shoulder, sinking my teeth into his skin, and he gives a startled,  _sharp_ cry, arching up towards me. His left hand rakes across my back, I bite down a little harder in response, and he lets loose another laugh.

"You're wearing too many  _clothes_ ," he tells me, left hand dipping down to tug at the edge of my pants, and I have to take several more breaths before I can even think about letting go of the skin between my teeth and trying to do anything intelligent.

Slowly I let go, taking another shallow breath against his skin. I squeeze his thighs once, to warn him and to try and stabilize myself, before I carefully let go. My weight and the strength in his legs keeps him up, and I reach down below them and unhook my belt and pants without thinking about it too much. All of my attention is on the skin pressed against me, and the faint quivers and movement of muscles that I can now exactly identify as Dick slipping his own fingers inside himself. I swallow,  _hard_.

I let my pants fall, and shove my boxers down with them, before raising my hands back up to grip his thighs and squeezing my eyes shut against the flesh of his neck. He gives a low moan, left hand smoothing over my back and up to grip my shoulder from the back,  _clinging_. I shudder, trying to picture the sight of what he's doing to himself. I can, but it's fuzzy, dim from an old memory.

"You're doing that where I can see it later," I manage to vocalize, hands flexing around his muscle as I fight the urge to drag him across the room and throw him onto the bed, so I can watch  _now_.

"Am I?" he asks with a laugh and then another moan, and I can feel his cock — against my stomach — twitch. I have to take in another deep breath before I can answer him with any kind of steady voice.

"You said I get to do whatever I want to you for the night," I repeat, almost proud of how much restraint I'm exhibiting, "and you're goddamn  _nuts_ if you think I'm just fucking you once with a promise like that."

Dick gives a pleased moan, hand tightening on my shoulder — I can feel the slight dig of something plastic and sharp edged; the other two wrappers — as he gives a tiny shudder. " _Good_ ," he answers in a mostly breathless voice, nails digging into my skin.

I'm going to be in ragged shreds tomorrow, but it will  _so_ be worth it.

He lets go of my shoulder after a few seconds, slipping his hand down my side to the hand at his thigh on that side. I feel the press of plastic against my hand and look down. He's pressing the second packet of lube and the condom against the back of my hand, and without really thinking I release his thigh to take them. His lips press against the side of my neck, teeth nipping at my skin, and I can feel his grin.

"Ready when you are,  _Red_ ," he purrs, and I have to tilt my head back and drag in a thick breath not to go totally insane. I nearly do anyway when his left leg tightens around my waist and his right loosens and — in a move only  _Dick_ could ever pull off so seamlessly or, you know, at  _all_  — slips back and up, hooking over my shoulder on that side, his heel digging into my muscle to hook himself without any real support needed from me.

"Jesus  _Christ_ ," is all I manage to say, staring at the line of his leg, and he laughs.

"As  _if_ you're religious.  _Fuck_ me."

I swap my grips, bracing the leg still around my waist with my right hand and switching the condom and lube packet to my left. Dick watches me rip open the condom with my teeth, mouth flickering in a grin, and follows my hand down as I roll it down onto my cock. I bite my lip at the intense sensation of my previously untouched dick, and then gasp in a shocked mixture of pain and pleasure when the automatic response hurts a lot more than it should, aggravating the punctures from Dick's teeth.

My hand shakes as I tear open the lube packet and spread the contents over the condom, breathing hard against Dick's shoulder. His left hand slides along my back and up to tangle in my hair, and his right reappears from where it's been — I swallow — busy to grab my hip and dig slick fingers and blunt nails into my skin. I push forward, in distant awe of the ease that the leg hooked over my shoulder flattens up against his own body and between us, and his hands tighten as I fit the head of my cock up against him. I take a second to take a steadying breath before pushing inside, and it  _immediately_ drives the air right back out of me.

He gives a satisfied moan, nearly melting into the press of my body against his, the hand on my hip sliding up along my back. For something,  _anything,_ else to focus on I shift my grip, moving my hands to grip his ass on both sides, burying my mouth and and nose against the skin of his neck and taking in a deep breath to replace the air. It's a bad idea.

Taking in that deep a breath smacks me in the face with the uniquely  _Dick_  combination of scents, and that totally shatters any kind of restraint that I was trying to hold on to.

Behind the smell of sex in the air — and the faint scents of sweat, copper, and smoke that always cling to him — he smells like pine, from whatever fancy as hell soap and cologne he uses. But even behind it you can smell that hint of copper, because the blood never really washes all the ways off, and the clinging scent of smoke from too much fire and too many battlegrounds. It's… It's intoxicating, it's  _Dick_  in the purest sense of the word, and my breath stutters in my chest as I shudder and moan into his shoulder, my teeth gritting.

I push him just a little harder against the wall — like there's anywhere left for me to go, any closer I could  _possibly_  get — and give up on any semblance of control. I roll my hips and draw out, slamming back into him in the same moment and he gives a snarled groan into my ear that makes my teeth grind together. His leg tightens around my waist even further — I'm going to have bruises, but  _fuck_  if I care right now — and he breathes heavily into my ear as I fuck him, periodically raking his nails down the flesh of my back and giving the most perfect  _sounds_. Dick's not a screamer, but the noises he  _does_  make are arousing as  _fuck_.

The hand in my hair strokes upwards, getting a firmer grip, and then yanks, and my rhythm falters and freezes for a second — hips jerking up into him,  _totally_  out of my control — as I cry out and he forces my head backwards, arching and baring my throat to him. He takes instant advantage, his teeth digging into the front of my throat hard enough to sting, to draw blood, and I swallow hard against his mouth, jerking back into motion and some kind of pattern of thrusting in the next second, shuddering and twitching forward, away, I don't  _know_.

Dick's teeth let me go, to give a keening sound as his hand drops to dig nails into my ass, and then his hand drags my head up and towards him to kiss me. It tastes like blood,  _my_  blood, and that should freak me the hell out but it  _doesn't_. I meet his teeth with my own, and he gives a thick groan into my mouth and tugs sharply at my hair. I gasp, and his tongue forces its way between my teeth. It's the perfect rolling thrust of motion, matching the rhythm and movement of my hips, and I give a pleading sound that's almost totally lost in the slap of flesh and the wet slide of his mouth against mine, but I know he hears it because both of his hands clench down even tighter.

He jerks my head back from the kiss, teeth bared and a little stained in blood as he arches back, giving a desperate  _shout_  up towards the ceiling and clenching down around me hard enough to hurt, hard enough to drag an answering cry from my chest.

I'm too close to the end of this for comfort, but god  _damn_ there's no way in hell I could ever hold back when it comes to Dick. He's such a work of fucking  _art_  that I don't think there's anyone in the world who can hold onto control or any kind of  _discipline_  in the middle of sex with him, there's no  _way_  that's possible. I damn well can't do it, I could  _never_  do it. I can hold onto control and be this teasing, masterful,  _badass_  when I'm with  _anyone_  else, but put me in Dick's hands and I fall apart under his touch, his teeth, and his passion. Everything about him slams against my restraint, tears it to shreds until I can't even  _pretend_  to be anything but instinct and  _want_.

Only with him. Only  _for_  him.

He jerks, the movement holding a jagged edge, a sudden stop, that I recognize. This is the  _only_  time that Dick is ever anything but graceful; right when he's about to fall past the point of no return. Give him what should be a  _fatal_  injury, or a broken limb, and he'll still be a god among men, but get him this close to coming and he finally breaks just a little bit. This single moment is the only proof that there's still something raw about Dick, that somewhere underneath all that skill and all that power he's still just human.

I cling to the edge, grinding my teeth together and trying to hold on for just a moment longer, just enough to get him there first so I can watch, so I can see him crack underneath me. God, I wish I could see his eyes underneath that mask.

He breathes hard, writhing, hand digging hard enough into my hip that it genuinely hurts in a not-so-good way. The heel of the leg stretched over my shoulder digs into the muscle of my back and he gives a choked sound that nearly wrenches me to an end I'm  _not_  ready for. I give a similarly strangled noise into the air between us, and his throat arches back, entire body drawing taut like the string of a bow, mouth falling open in a soundless circle for a moment that feels like a pause in time. I draw a breath, and he's shaking and twitching, nails raking over my back and head falling forward against my shoulder,  _keening_ as his cock throbs and I can feel the warm splatter of his come against my stomach.

That's it, I'm done.

I jerk up into him and my hands tighten on his ass, hard enough to bruise, as I muffle a dragging, shaking moan against the flesh of his shoulder. It feels like the core of me is being pulled away, along with all my higher brain functions — not that I was really using them  _before_ coming — and my senses narrow down to the touch of his skin to mine and  _nothing_ else. The way he trembles, his breath against my collarbone, one hand in my hair and the other against my low back, that's my  _world_.

I give a second, quieter moan, my grip loosening as the strength drains out of me and I lean forward into him, against the wall at his back. My breath feels ragged, and I can feel the pounding of Dick's heart thudding through my chest and mixing with the equally fast beat of mine. I shudder when the hand in my hair lets go and slides down my neck, coming down to grip my shoulder as Dick presses his face into the crook of my neck and opposite shoulder. He gives a warm,  _satisfied_  noise, pressing a tiny kiss to my skin as the hand on my low back slides up. I only jerk a little bit at the sting of at least a dozen scratches across my back.

" _Fuck_ ," is all I manage to get out, and Dick gives a soft laugh that sounds lazy with afterglow.

"Yeah, definitely," he murmurs, giving a sigh that's thoroughly pleased and still very,  _very_ soft. There's nothing like Dick in afterglow, when all his sharp edges slide away and he's actually open and welcoming. Even when he's waking up there's something  _dangerous_ to the way he is, and these small moments — after a good fuck, when he's sure you're  _his_  — are the only time he ever lets that go.

Now how the hell he's comfortable with his one leg still stretched up over my shoulder I don't know, but I'm not going to complain. I need a minute or so before I can actually move us anywhere, especially if I'm carrying Dick. A fuck as good as that will drain all the energy out of you, every time.

Dick shifts — I twitch and give a small noise at the clench of muscle around my softening cock — and presses another kiss to my neck. Yeah, it's over an earlier bite so it stings, but it's not so bad. Pain is just part of being with Dick, and as covered I happen to like it anyway, so that works out. For the best fucks of my life? Yeah, some residual pain is no big deal. It's not like I don't know how to handle aches and scratches, or like that level of injury means  _anything_ to me.

"Bed," Dick commands, the hand on my shoulder tightening for just a second, and I take another second to pull myself together enough to raise my head.

I drag in a deep breath before shifting back, taking Dick's weight on my hips and my arms, and he — I still don't know  _how_ — unhooks his leg from my shoulder and tucks it back around my waist without even lifting his head. I have to pause to not just collapse where I am when his adjustment shifts us enough that my cock slips from him, tensing up for just a second at the too-intense sensation. I can feel him smirk against my skin.

When I can move again I do, turning us and walking surprisingly steadily across the room to my bed. It's a little awkward, because my pants are still around my ankles and hooked on my boots, but I manage it. It takes a fair bit of willpower to resist the urge to just collapse onto the bed, but I manage to lean down to let Dick disconnect and lie back without just falling on top of him. His legs slip from my waist, and he lets go of me to stretch out along my bed, before he almost immediately rolls onto his side, his back to me. I sit down, heavily, and reach to pull the condom off my cock. I shudder at the feeling, tying the end before tossing it in the trash next to my bed.

_Damn_ having to be responsible about this.

I reach for the nightstand, just past the small wastebin, and drag a couple tissues out of the box there. I wipe my stomach off first before retrieving a couple more and passing the clean ones over Dick's shoulder. He rolls towards me, taking the tissues and sitting up behind me more smoothly than anyone that just had the sex we did should be able to. He tosses the used tissues past my side, and I join in with the ones I used, before his left arm slides around my waist and he presses up against my back. He bends with me as I lean down, undoing the laces on my boots and shoving them off along with my pants and socks, so I'm finally just as naked as Dick. It's a slow process, but I manage to straighten back up too.

"Mmmm, that was  _nice_ , Red," he purrs, right hand sliding down my arm to press his hand over the back of mine and lace our fingers together, resting them both on my thigh. He still sounds a little drugged, and I somehow drag a snort out of my throat.

I lean back against him, letting my head rest against his shoulder, and I don't even panic when he folds backwards in a controlled fall, bringing us both down to the bed. He adjusts, and then reaches down and hooks his left hand around my thigh, dragging my legs up onto the bed so they're not hanging off the side. I let him manhandle me without complaint.

"Nice?" I ask, when he's wrapped around me like he wants to be and finally stills. On our sides, my back to him, with his right arm under my torso and his hand still laced together with mine, his left leg between mine but not pressed up against my groin, his mouth against the back of my neck, and his left hand tracing patterns along my side and down across my stomach.

"Well I don't know," he says with a tiny bit of sarcasm, "you seemed a little distracted."

"Maybe by  _you_ ," I answer, easing into the bed and into the warm press of his body to my back. I don't get  _enough_ of this.

I can feel him smile against my neck, and the hand laced with mine squeezes, gently. "Well, who  _wouldn't_ be?" he says, arrogance in every word, and I snort again.

"Fuck you, Nightingale," I say with no real feeling, almost enjoying the taunting,  _teasing_ exchange. Trusting someone to be at my back is… hard, these days, but this is Dick. He's family, and family is everything.

He laughs, pressing up against me and I can still feel his smile. "Whenever you're ready," he promises, and I can't help the tiny upwards twitch of my own smile.

"I'll let you know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we're back to real plot! Not much to say about this particular chapter, other than sit tight, and make sure to strap in for the roller coaster! I'll also be posting something else, a piece of Hal/Barry in this same universe, as part of a fanfiction challenge that was an attempt to get more Hal/Barry fiction out in the world. So look for that!

The call that snaps Dick and me out of sleep rings loud, piercing, and he's rolling up — pulling a knife from  _god_ knows where — as he curls and crouches. I drag myself up next to him, having to steady myself for a second because  _Christ_ I'm sore, and I ache. Consequences of a night with Dick; it happens. I breathe in as he slides off the bed and to where his discarded costume is lying up against the wall, sinking down to fish his phone out of it. He flips it open, turning to lean back against the wall. I watch him, but don't move, yet.

If I don't have to get out of this bed, I don't want to.

"What is it, O?" he asks, and I shove out a sigh and pull myself off the bed, wandering over to the cabinet against the wall opposite that's got spare sets of the clothes that serve as my costume. Jacket excluded of course. If Bruce is calling, we've got work to do. Even if he didn't have access to all the security in here, and wouldn't know what we spent all night doing, he just generally doesn't call us otherwise.

I zone out of the conversation — I can only hear Dick's half anyway — taking a look at my reflection in the mirror built into the inside of one of the cabinet's doors. Yeah, not surprising. I pretty much look like I got mauled by something, or went a few rounds with someone bigger and stronger than me. I'm covered in bruises, scratches, and various other marks including quite a few bites on my neck that my jacket is just flat out not going to cover. It's nothing that I shouldn't be able to just ignore, with a little effort.

I pull clothes out as he talks, and then hangs up. I glance at him — he's got the phone sandwiched between his shoulder and his ear, as he collects the pieces of his costume — and he offers me a shrug and a smile.

The person he's calling picks up, and his smile brightens into what's nearly a grin. "Morning, T. We've got work. Sound the alarm and make the calls, would you?" He must get an affirmative, because he ends the call as he stands up.

"Heroes or invasion?" I ask flatly, and behind the cover of his mask — the one thing he can't take off in here, just in case — I can see the pattern of muscle movement that suggests an eye roll.

"Atlanteans," he says with a snort, pulling into his costume and then his gloves. "Something about Sea King's rival, coastal attack. It's large scale, we're gathering the whole team and the Crime Syndicate is massing too." He turns his back on me, one hand rising to pull hair off the back of his neck, and I take the few steps necessary to stand behind him.

"You are  _perfectly_  capable of zipping up your own damn costume," I half-complain, pulling the line up his spine to cover it again.

He laughs, letting his hair fall back and turning to me, looping an arm around my shoulders and molding himself up against me. It feels nice, but I am  _so_  sore, and it's really not the temptation it should be. "I like it better when  _you_  do it though, little wing," he whispers, with a grin, and for a second he looks like he's about to kiss me before he abruptly pulls away.

Tease.

"Get your clothes on, Red," he calls, carrying his boots over to the bed and sitting down to pull them on.

I do it, pulling into the layers of clothing and armor, and retrieving my jacket and boots from their various points across the room. He waits for me as I tug them on and then quickly check my most commonly used things — ammo, my own version of the owlarangs, smoke pellets, and the spare cords for my grapnel — before giving him a brief nod and snagging my helmet off the floor. I don't wear it in the base, it's not comfortable or convenient enough for that, so I store it in my room so no one else gets a chance to mess with it until I need it again.

I tuck it under my arm as he stretches one last time and heads for the door, and I follow him. The door locks automatically behind us, and Dick's stride is long and swift as he heads for the common area. I keep pace with him a little easier than most other people would, and I can hear the chatter of conversation long before anyone is actually visible. Our teammates don't live and breathe silence the way we do. Sometimes it's a bit of a shock, a lot more often it's a pain in the ass, but sometimes it's nice to be around people who I can actually hear coming even if I'm not on alert. Or who will just chat and ramble about things, even if there's not actually anything to say. It's not familiar, not yet, but most of the time I don't mind it.

I spent… I spent a long time by myself, mostly in silence. It's kind of nice to be back around people who don't see me as an enemy, at least not right now. I don't really know most of them well enough to actually let my guard down, but even partially excluded is nice after the total solitude. Wally is probably the only exception right now, and that's because being a speedster comes with a distinct lack of common sense, and he didn't hesitate throwing his hand in my face and introducing himself. Not by that name, of course, but Wally's not exactly subtle about identities and I'm an Owl — that still makes something in me clench and release in  _awe_  that my family forgave me for everything that I did — so I already knew.

Dick and Bruce didn't even bring up the idea of me part-time joining the team until they'd already given me all the files on the other members of it, including all the identities. Neither of them were going to put me in a situation where I might end up having to fight any of these people, without giving me all the information I'd need to take them down  _hard_. My family wouldn't do that.  _Dick_ wouldn't do that.

I pick out the voices, matching them to Wally, as Lightning; Roy, as Arsenal; Kon-El, as Ultraboy; and Koriand'r, as the alien bitch of a princess. We get along alright so long as she and I don't  _talk_ , and she doesn't assume I'm going to do something just because she thinks I should. I don't get what Harper sees in her, but it seems to work between them, so whatever.

I guess there might be people that don't see how Dick and I work either.

I'm pretty sure Tim is in Gotham at the moment, or he might just be off on his own. Either way, I know he's not at this base. Most of our team doesn't actually live or stay here, and most of them have got their own cities to work in, and usually some bigger, badder Crime Syndicate member who they work for. Family, sometimes. Obviously there's the speedster family, and Harper is Red Archer's adopted kid, and I guess Kon-El might get considered family by Ultraman. Koriand'r doesn't have family, at least not on Earth, but most of our teammates have either got direct family or at least mentors. She's the rarity.

This is going to call everybody together. The core Crime Syndicate members, as well as the outliers like us. That means some work gathering people from all over the country, and that's assuming nobody's off on a different continent at the moment. Most of them should meet us over in Coast City, assuming there's no wait between Bruce calling us together and us actually heading over. We might wait for a person or two, if they're close, but if the Atlantean attack — or whatever it is — is happening now, we're not going to waste time on a couple of stragglers. They'll get there when they can.

Our team is only really there to play backup to the big shots anyway, and most of them can travel a hell of a lot faster than our basic members can, so they'll be there. They're not going to go down in the time it takes us to get there, and if that was an actual risk someone would have told us to book it. Since Dick didn't relay that, and his call to Tim was pretty casual, I guess we're in no real rush. Not by our standards, anyway.

At some point, we should definitely get an actual team name, if they're just going to keep calling us 'the team.' Just for the sake of convenience, really, not because I actually give a shit if we're this weird, unofficial, lower Crime Syndicate group. I mean, we're not sidekicks, and we're sure as hell not minions or anything like that, but we're also not officially members of the Crime Syndicate. It's started getting used as a way to refer to all of us, but the only people actually in the Crime Syndicate are the founding group. We don't count. They can call us proteges or partners all they want, but the fact is that most of us have branched off and become powerful in our own right, and not just under them.

Maybe I'll wait until someone else brings it up; it's not really my problem.

Dick strides into the room with all of his usual grace, presence, and the edge of sharp professionalism that he throws around his shoulders like a cape to keep people's attention when he speaks as their leader. I follow with a good deal less fanfare, a foot or so behind and in his shadow, but I don't mind that. It gives me the advantage if people think I'm not much more than a footnote next to Dick. Anyone who believes that just because I'm the one with the marks on my skin — and he isn't — I'm not just as dangerous as he is, makes for an easy target.

The room doesn't go silent instantly, there are way too many strong personalities in there for it to work that well, but it doesn't take that long. Wally's voice, naturally, is the last one to fade out, as Dick slides closer to the clustered grip. Koriand'r's got one arm around Harper's shoulders, chin balanced to the side of his bow and quiver and her other hand intertwined with his. It's pretty extremely possessive, but he doesn't even seem to really notice it. Kon-El is a little ways off, just far enough to be obviously separate from the group's dynamic. Wally is still, but only until he looks over and sees us approaching.

Then he's at my side in a flash of yellow lightning and a whoosh of displaced air, grinning and nudging my shoulder with his. "Fun night?" he asks, teasing, and I give a quiet snort.

"You have to  _ask?_ " I keep my voice pitched between the two of us, though I'm sure Dick picks it up, and obviously our Kryptonian teammate will too. I flick my gaze that direction, in time to catch the way Kon-El's jaw clenches and he flushes, gaze ducking away from both of us. I can see his nostrils flare, but he keeps his eyes turned away.

Shame I didn't get to see his reaction somewhere a little less public than this; I want to know what our show did to him. I guess there's still whatever footage Tim recorded, so that'll be good enough. Could be a lot of fun to watch. Maybe we've just shocked or embarrassed him enough that he'll stop being such a condescending dick of a Kryptonian for a while. As first impressions go, his wasn't too great. I know he'll do his job, because no one would be allowed on our team unless Bruce and Dick were sure they could carry their own weight, but I don't have to trust him to do it well. I'll wait to see him in the field.

"Morning, everyone," Dick calls, retrieving everybody's attention. "We're getting called in to provide backup for the Crime Syndicate, standard protocols. Kon-El, you don't have an earpiece, right?" He shakes his head, looking up with a jaw that's still absurdly tightly clenched. Dick digs into one of his pouches and retrieves one of the spares, tossing it to the Kryptonian in an underhanded toss. "That'll keep you in communication with the team, the button on the outside switches it on and off. There is  _no_ reason you should have it turned off at any point while we're in the field, it's what I'll relay orders through." Dick straightens and swaps from easy and relaxed to threatening, and I can see the change in his stance and the different curl to his smile.

"You  _will_ follow my orders, Kon-El," he says softly, teeth flashing. "If you endanger the rest of the team by disobeying there won't be a symbol in the  _universe_ that can protect you, especially not the one you're wearing on your chest."

Kon-El swallows — Wally, Harper, and Koriand'r stay silent — and ducks his head in a nod. "Got it."

Dick eases and lets his singular focus go, and I resist the smirk that wants to lift one corner of my mouth. "We're grouping in Coast City to gather before attacking," Dick continues, as I lift my helmet and click it into place. "The rest of the team is being contacted and brought together."

"I shall fly," Koriand'r says simply, straightening up off of Harper and stepping out from mostly behind him.

"I'll run," Wally counters, with a grin. "Want me to alert anyone on my way?"

"Black Talon will let you know." Dick's head tilts back towards Kon-El. "Are you flying too, or joining us and Harper in the jet?"

"Flying," the Kryptonian answers shortly, tucking the earpiece in.

"Then stay close to Koriand'r. Keep contact, and try not to catch anyone's attention. This isn't the time to get in any fights; we have work to do." Wally slips around both of us, tugging his goggles down over his face. "That goes for you too, Lightning," Dick says with a hint of sharpness, "just because you can make up the time doesn't mean I want you stopping to do anything on the way. Black Talon will contact you if he wants you to stop anywhere. Go."

Wally snaps a mocking salute and then turns on his heel and flashes out of the room.

"Kori, Kon-El, get to the roof and take off. Head for Coast City, more specific coordinates will come when you're in the air." Then Dick turns, flashing a smirk at Harper and flicking his hand in a brief beckoning gesture. "You're with us, Arsenal," he calls over his shoulder, as he heads for the corridor that's the fastest route out to the garage area.

"Like always," Harper answers with humor, falling into step about a half a step in front of me, both of us behind Dick's black and blue patterned shoulders. "Have we actually got a three-seated plane this time, or am I going to get stuck standing again?"

Good question, actually. We try to keep a bigger jet around the base, for reasons like this, but it doesn't always work. They get swapped between here, the Crime Syndicate base, and Gotham pretty regularly, and it's pure luck what ends up where.

"If there's not, I'll stand," I offer, and Harper looks over his shoulder at me and cracks a grin.

"Yeah, like Nightingale's going to let me sit at the controls for one of your jets. Which I could totally fly, by the way," he turns to speak at Dick's back, "if you guys  _labeled_ your buttons with anything. Honestly, how do you guys not crash into flaming wrecks all the time? If you just put markings,  _any_ kind of markings, it would be so much easier."

"Which is why we don't," Dick counters, with a tossed smile over his shoulder. "I guess if you can't even memorize a console layout you're just not good enough, Arsenal."

"Woah, hey, I am  _perfectly_ good at memorizing things. But what if there's a head injury, or what if someone needs to haul one of your asses out of something? Then what? No one can fly those jets but you guys, are we supposed to just clasp our hands together and pray you make it out?" Harper raises both hands in a shrug, tilting his head a bit. "I mean, seems a bit shortsighted to me. Paranoid much?"

"Is it paranoia if people are actually trying to kill you?" I put into the conversation, and Harper looks a tad startled as he twists to look back at me. My tone isn't totally serious, but with my helmet on he won't be able to see my expression and I don't think he knows me well enough to read what I mean from just my tones. Not yet.

He stares, and then looks at Dick's back like he expects some kind of help. It takes me a couple seconds of his tongue tied silence to realize why it's even there, and remember that Harper only really knows me as Red Hood, and with that background. Me interjecting comments about dying or being killed probably puts him in a weird spot, at least in his own mind. Does he take it like a joke and risk offending me, or does he treat my comment seriously and risk looking like an idiot if I am joking?

"Relax, Arsenal," Dick breaks in, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. "That wasn't a trap; you're fine."

Arsenal eases a little bit, and I let myself give a small smirk behind my helmet. I lengthen my stride for a second, brushing past the archer and moving to walk beside Dick. "Guess I'll take that seat after all," I remark, and letting my smirk turn to a small grin as he shakes his head and gives a surrendering noise, holding both hands up.

" _Owls_ , man. You guys are all totally nuts."

Dick laughs, mouth a perfect curl of a smile and his shoulder brushing mine with every step. It's not perfect, it's a  _long_ ways from perfect, but having him next to me always makes things better. Just being back with him and Bruce, with my  _family_ , is better.

* * *

I feel the kick of the gun all the way up my arm, and the Atlantean topples backwards even as the momentum of his charge keeps his bottom half headed towards me, and he crashes to a rolling stop at my feet. Four shots left in the clip, my mental count tells me. I glance to either side, quickly, to make sure no one else is intruding on my particular section of combat, before refocusing on the collection of Atlanteans regrouping in front of me. I duck to the side of a blast of blue fire from one of their guns, and then spin behind a car to get out of the way as they get themselves together.

The glass of the window above me shatters under another blast, and I wince and shake my shoulders to get as much of it as possible off of my jacket. There's a flash of black in my peripheral, and I jerk my head to the side in time to see Nightingale flatten himself against the car next to me. He's got blood splashed across one cheek, his two blades are coated in it, and it looks like something caught him across the back of his left shoulder and ripped a wound into it, but it doesn't seem to be slowing him down. He flashes me a smile, then leans up to glance through the shattered space of the window at my group of Atlanteans.

" _Archer's sector secure,"_  Arsenal's voice says in our ears, a cheerful tilt to his voice. " _Orders from the Owl to move in and tighten the loop, I'll see you soon."_

Dick flashes me a small grin and moves, and like it's instinct I go with him. He dashes past me and around the edge of the car, and I straighten up and brace on the top of the car to empty my clip into the group of Atlanteans. Two to heads, one to a chest, the last bullet to a knee, and then Dick's crossed the space between us and them. I eject the clip and reach for another as I watch him whirl and leap between them, a constant arc of black and blue motion interspersed with splashes of new red and the flash of blades. By the time I've made sure my clip is firmly in, and circled the car, the group of Atlanteans is on the ground, most of them choking on their own blood.

He yanks the blade in his right hand out of the chest of the last Atlantean, and turns to me with a smile as I approach him. He meets me halfway, flicking excess blood off his steel and then shoving them into their sheaths. The street around us is empty, and after a moment or two of silence he flicks his hand to me in a familiar command. I reach for my grapnel as he gets closer, and wait for his point to one of the taller buildings immediately around us — only four stories — to wrap my arm around his waist and fire the cable.

He supports himself more than I lift him, but I still grit my teeth a bit at the strain on my arm as the cable pulls us off the ground. He's off of me the second we're up, balancing on a corner of the building and peering down to the streets around us. It's pretty quiet, and I recognize at the same time as he does that we've cleared out our sector too.

"Nightingale and Red's sector secure," he informs everyone, "we're moving in."

" _You could simply call it the Owl sector,"_  comes the slightly mocking voice of Koriand'r, as Dick and I head towards the beach.

The Atlantean threat turned out to be a fight between Sea King and his brother. He drove the opposing army out of the water and into the city, to be crushed between his army and the might of the Crime Syndicate. We've had some minimal hero interference, but the entire thing has been pretty short and they haven't responded yet. We gathered more efficiently than they did, so they have to gather enough heroes to really challenge us before moving in. They might manage it before we're done, and I welcome the challenge. Then we've got Sea King's army at our back and most of our might collected here. We'll  _rip_ them apart.

" _They're lacking a few members to be calling it that,"_ Tim comments, voice cool and interspersed by one sharp metal screech. Probably the destruction of a tank, since Kon-El is in his zone at the moment

Dick laughs, slightly breathless from the rooftop run at my side. "We'd never forget you, T. Update?"

" _Tanks are destroyed,"_ Kon-El growls. " _Where next?"_

That gets an almost immediate answer as I get to the top of a building a second behind Dick and get dragged down to the roof by one of his hands, down out of view of the mini park below. He mimes silence and then pulls us to the edge, and I shake his hand free but follow his lead. We peer over the edge, and I make a face behind my helmet at the squadron below us. It looks like they're headed back to the beach, and their backs are to us, but there are also three of the hovering tanks split between an irritating amount of ground units.

"Move to our sector, Kon-El," Dick orders, studying the squadron. They're actually arrayed pretty well, no obvious holes in security and all weapons at the ready. "Have an untouched squadron here, three tanks. We'll take care of the infantry around them."

_"Can't handle a few tanks, Owls?"_ Wally sounds teasing, and I can see the flick of a smirk across Dick's face.

I answer before Dick can, as I check the clips on my guns. "What we can do and what we  _want_  to do are two different things, Lightning. I like not having to deal with tanks, personally. Kon-El, what's your estimate of time?"

_"Two minutes,"_ the Kryptonian answers, and I trade a glance with Dick, who flashes a bright smile.

"We'll have the infantry cleared," Dick says brightly, and I grab a cable from my belt and loop it around one of the sturdier looking metal supports for the electrical box.

I pull one of my guns to my hand and slip down the side of the building. Dick is just a second behind me. Partly by luck, and partly because we're both on the ground and crouched behind cars within seconds, we don't get spotted. He flicks a few hand gestures at me, and following the command I lean around the side of the car. I aim up a shot as Dick darts around to closer cover, behind one of the trees in the mini park and still roughly a hundred feet away.

My first shot puts a bullet in the neck of the guard to the farthest left of the formation, and he topples to the ground as cries of alarm and command ring out. My second fixes them on where I'm crouching and I run, giving them a target and circling around to the corner of the next building as blue fire slices through the air around me. I get behind it just in time to hear more cries, and recognize that Dick's made his move into close combat. Which pulls their fire off of me and lets me mimic his approach.

I dart from one piece of cover to another, past cars and then trees, taking out a few choice targets as I get closer. Dick is wreaking havoc in the center of their lines, keeping himself too close to use their guns without hitting their allies, and I let myself have a grin at his work. Then I'm in the combat next to him, and my awareness fades away to mostly instinct. Working with Dick is automatic, even though we've had less practice at it than most of the rest of the family, and we move seamlessly around each other.

Dick fills in the spaces where I keep my distance, and I watch his back with my gun in my right hand and my knife in my left. At least until the tanks turn on us, and then we're moving again. I follow the order hidden in the tilt of his head and the arch of his body, taking down an Atlantean charging towards him with a pull of the trigger, and then slip to the side as he does the same. We move into the shadow of one tank and hidden from the sight line of the other two, safely protected, for the moment, from a blast of concentrated blue fire from one of the turrets. The tank we're behind is already moving, trying to shake us from the protection of being practically underneath it, but it will work for the moment.

They probably won't take out one of their own tanks to get us too; although we are recognizable and  _fairly_ famous, so that might be a bad gamble to make. Guess we'll find out.

Luckily, the infantry is still coming at us, trying to get us out of the protection we've found. Their  _insistence_ on trying to kill us lets us kill them instead, one by one. I take a glancing shot to my lower left calf from one of their guns, but it's not even enough to slow me down, and it's more singed than actually bleeding. By the time Kon-El arrives — definitely longer than two minutes — we've got about three quarters of the infantry down, and if I wasn't quite so concentrated on the combat I might be laughing at the fact that the tank we're hiding behind isn't doing much more than spinning in circles trying to get us away from it.

Kon-El comes down on top of one of the two other tanks — that have been trying to move to flank us, pretty unsuccessfully — with a crunch of metal and a whining that warns of an imminent explosion from whatever got damaged inside of it. He sinks his fingers deep in the metal, spins, and flings it at the other of the two tanks. Dick and I take advantage of the fact that Kryptonians are giant targets and massive attention grabbers to move out of the shadow of the last tank and attack the remaining infantry.

The tank we were under spins towards Kon-El, as our Kryptonian lunges at it, and gets a shot off just in time for it to slam directly into the center of his chest. He skids backward along the ground, and I share a glance with Dick before running for the tank. I snag one of the compacted explosive devices from my belt, smaller than a grenade and a little harder for someone to purposefully detonate while it's still attached to me. A push off an infantry Atlantean's face gets me high enough to get on top of the tank, and I run for the hatch and pry it open with just a little trouble. It's not really designed to be opened by someone without enhanced strength, but I manage enough to slip my explosive through the gap before letting it close again.

I leap back off the tank, setting up to roll across the ground and hitting the detonator as I fall. The concussion from the explosion knocks me a little off my preferred angle, I hit the ground more than roll across it, and I wince at what I know is going to be another bruise to add to the collection. Still, the tank hits the ground behind me, so I count it as a victory.

I move for Kon-El, who's slowly dragging himself up and out of the crater he made. Dick is handling the last of the infantry, so apart from taking a few shots on my way I let him handle it. Kon-El's t-shirt is burnt away, but he looks fine underneath that, if a little stunned.

"You good?" I ask, as he gets to his feet with a grimace.

"Fine," he grumbles, and I hear the slight echo in my ear from the open communication line. He rolls both shoulders back, shaking his head as if his ears are ringing — they might be — and straightening up.

I turn back to make sure some freak accident hasn't interrupted Dick's slaughter, and find him headed towards us. His stride is easy, slow, and he flicks a bright smile at Kon-El that's more threat than anything else. I doubt the Kryptonian reads as much of it as I do, but I'm familiar with Dick's expressions in a way that most people aren't. I'm used to being the only person in a room who can see just how  _angry_ Dick is, and usually the one to run interference. That, or lean back and watch whatever poor bastard pissed him off suffer.

"The Atlanteans are in full retreat back to the beach," he announces. "All teams, head that direction and take out any stragglers on the way. The faster this is done the faster we can head back to the base."

_"Or our cities,"_ Tim points out, with a coolly teasing edge to his tone that's straight out of Alfred's repertoire.

"Or our cities," Dick concedes, flicking his hand in a command to follow that I understand, but Kon clearly doesn't. Dick notices that too, as I move to meet him and take the period of silence to reload the two guns at the small of my back. "Kon-El, with us for now. In the air, keep an eye out for anyone around."

Kon-El nods but doesn't offer any response, lifting into the air above us. Dick and I settle into an easy lope of movement, not near our top speed but something we can keep up for a long time, and won't strain any theoretically strained muscles. Of course, the only muscles I've got that are sore are the ones Dick made that way last night, and none of it is enough to really hurt anyway. The exercise has been good for those muscles, actually. Even after the work, I'm a lot less stiff than I was when I woke up this morning. Part of that is definitely the fact that all pain gets minimized to the back of my head in a combat situation, unless it's actually life threatening or crippling.

There's the burn on my calf, and another burn on my right side that just barely got past my armor. Almost all of that is just damage to my blackened armor, the burn itself is minor and only in a few small spots. Other than that I'm pretty much untouched, just the regular strain of a fight. Maybe a few scrapes, more bruises. I might get to have fun later, figuring out which bruises are from Dick and which are from this fight. Dick's bruises tend to be pretty obvious, and deliberate, but not all of them.

I fight down any kind of reaction to the memories of last night, but Dick, of course, is far too tuned into me to not notice the small, involuntary parts that do get through.

He shifts closer, flashing me a smirk and baring his teeth for a second. I roll my eyes behind my helmet and shake my head. It might be a hell of a thing to imagine or think about, but I know that realistically I'm a little too sore to actually get through another night with Dick. Not unless he's gentle, and he wouldn't do that. I can enjoy the pain, but I like being able to move and fight without any serious pain, and if I stay another night with Dick I'm not going to be able to do that for a couple of days.

Dick knows I like the pain, so he doesn't hesitate using that any and every time he can to wind me as tight as possible. I could ask him to not do that, but I'm not crossing that boundary. I'm one of the  _very_ few people that Dick can sleep with and not hold back, or pretend to be something he's not, and I wouldn't ask him to forfeit that.

Tempting as it is. As  _he_ is.

We don't run into anyone on the way to the beach, and by the time we get there Sea King's army is picking through bloody sand hunting for any survivors among the bodies. Kon-El settles down next to us, and I glance around to find the major hubs of activity. Bruce is over with Green Lantern, Sea King, and Superwoman. His jet is halfway between us and them, settled firmly in the sand. Parts of our team are scattered across the sand, mostly near the edges and letting the Atlanteans deal with their own.

Dick doesn't move to change anything, so I guess that's fine. I guess we're just waiting for the official dismissal from Bruce. Just in case something else happens, or we need to complete some other task before he's willing to let us go back to our respective homes.

Kon-El sets down in the sand next to us, not looking really pleased but then, I've yet to see him actually look happy. Or anything but varying degrees of angry, except when he tried to 'seduce' Dick, if that's what he wants to call it. 'Make a move on' is probably a better description, if you don't just want to go for a straight out 'tried to fuck.' He looks maybe a little bit more pissed than usual, but it's not aimed at anyone in particular. At least, he's not  _aiming_ it at anyone.

I settle into checking my supplies, making a basic checklist in my head of what I'll need to resupply when we get back to the base, or I make it back to one of my safe houses. It's mostly ammo, a cable or two, some random small weapons that I mostly used as something to flick into Atlantean faces. They weren't good enough to make me use any of my bigger things, though I will need to restock that explosive I used on the tank. It's all pretty basic stuff, and nothing pressing. I'd be fine with a basic ammo restock if I needed to; the rest is just things I'd prefer to have on me. Just in case.

My head tilts up as a figure in blue and red sinks down from the sky, settling lightly to the sands about a dozen feet in front of both of us. I pause, watching as Ultraman, Clark, moves closer. Kon-El looks a little confused, but Dick is a perfect smiling mask, of course. I can tell that he's not sure what Clark wants with him, and doesn't really like him this close, but there's no way anyone else could if they weren't family. It takes some practice to understand Dick's hidden body language, and his masked expressions.

Dick offers a tilt of his head that's almost like respect. "Ultraman, what can I do for you?"

Clark glances sideways at Kon-El, who ducks his head in what's actually respect, and then stops a little too close to Dick to be comfortable. I avoid reaching for my kryptonite, even though I want to. No aggressive moves against Ultraman, we can't get away with that. Bruce can, but he's busy in his conversation with the other Crime Syndicate members. I do tuck my weapons away though, so I've got my hands free just in case.

"You put Kon up against the tanks," Clark nearly  _grinds_  out, and my wariness ratchets up another level.

Dick pauses for a moment, obviously also feeling whatever the hell I am. "Yes," he answers, voice calm. Forcibly, if you know what you're listening for. "He's Kryptonian, and the field was big enough that it was better to have two people taking them out."

"Half," Clark snaps. Then he's moving, and I see the blur of movement but not even my primed, automatic reactions are fast enough to stop it.

The blow rings through the air, hitting high on Dick's cheek  _right_ over bone that I can't imagine isn't now in pieces, and Dick  _slams_ into the sand. He's bleeding, and I jerk for kryptonite. Clark turns on me, the red glow of his eyes giving me a fraction of a second of warning before the beams burn into my hand and I have to swallow back a cry of pain.

"Reach for that again and I'll burn it  _off_ ," he snarls at me, as I clutch at my injured right hand with my left. Dick is stirring, and I can see Bruce turning towards us but it's not  _fast_ enough. He doesn't know what's happened yet. Kon-El is staring, eyes wide and  _shocked_.

I can see the moment of tension as Dick comes back to consciousness, or at least shakes off whatever kind of dizziness had him. A backhand from a Kryptonian is nothing to laugh at, no matter how much we mock them. We're just  _human_. He doesn't immediately move, and then Clark is reaching down and grabbing him by the front of the suit, at his collar, and dragging him up into the air. Dick holds back any reaction, but I can see that the change in direction and the pressure at his throat hurts. I almost reach for my kryptonite again,  _damn_ the consequences, before I see Bruce realize what's going on.

Clark's mouth is twisted in a sneer, and he shakes Dick once, hard enough to snap my brother's head back for a second. "If you ever  _touch_  my son again, not even  _Owlman_ will be able to protect you,  _boy_."

Oh,  _that's_ what this is about. This isn't about Dick putting Kon-El in the combat role that he  _should_ be in, this is about Dick backing Kon-El off semi-violently last night. The little  _shit_ told on us, he brought in his  _dad_ to take revenge for a totally justified bit of pain. I'm going to fucking  _kill_ him for this. Dick is  _bleeding_ , in pain and still in Clark's grip, just because the Kryptonian bastard couldn't handle a little rejection? He's going to  _die_ for this.

"Are you  _insane?_ " I growl at Clark, buying time for Bruce to cross the sands. "Your brat  _asked_ for it."

For a second I think I'm about to get the same blow that Dick took, and I loosen my jaw in preparation, before Bruce's voice snaps across the distance still left like the crack of a whip.

" _Enough!_ "

Clark drops Dick, who only  _barely_ keeps his feet, even if it doesn't look any less graceful than normal. I move to stabilize him, ignoring the pain in my hand as I loop my arm around his waist. He's breathing a little shallowly, twitching in restrained motion that tells me it's not just pain, it's  _pain_. I can feel the tension, and the forced relaxation, that  _screams_ that he's holding back whatever he wants to do, or what his body wants to. I catch his throat working in a swallow, and then he gives a tiny  _jerk_  into my grip.

Bruce's left hand is hidden beneath his cape, but all of us can guess what he's holding. "Step  _away_ from him," Bruce demands, voice a deadly hiss of restrained rage. He doesn't give Clark much of a chance to respond, and I pull Dick back a few steps as Bruce slips between us and him. "Red Hood," he snaps over his shoulder, "your team is dismissed. Go back to the base, take the jet."

I obey the order I can read beneath his words —  _get Dick out of here_  — and turn us towards the jet. Dick bears his own weight, and I slip my arm to a much less obviously steadying grip, my hand resting on his low back. He's a little bit shaky, not  _quite_ steady enough for me to remove my support, not over the uncertain footing of the sand.

"T," I call, speaking to my own earpiece, "did you hear that?"

" _I heard it_ ," he confirms, and I can tell by his tone that it wasn't just Bruce's order that came through, it was  _everything_. This is going to be hell to clean up. " _We're dismissed_ ," Tim continues, a hint of command slipping into his tone as he speaks to the rest of the team. " _Head for either the base or home, check in with me when you're back. That's not_ _ **optional**_ _; I expect reports on any injuries as well."_

I get Dick to the jet, opening the ramp and staying a single step behind him as he climbs it. He stops in the center of the jet — three seats, it's one of our bigger ones — and I can see the tension in his shoulders, in the flex of his hands into fists that shake a little bit. I close the ramp as quickly as possible, yanking my helmet off and taking out my earpiece. I deactivate it and tuck it away, toss my helmet aside, and move for the controls. It's a few presses of buttons to activate the preprogrammed autopilot for the base, and then the cloaking to make us more or less invisible to anyone. Dick is standing  _perfectly_ still when I turn around, and I cross the jet's open space as quickly as possible.

I reach up,  _carefully_ pulling the earpiece out — making sure not to even brush his face — and deactivating that one too.

"We're good," I say softly, tucking the earpiece away into his belt and very carefully putting my hands on his waist. "We're alone."

Dick shudders, and then makes a noise that sounds like a  _keen_ , leaning forward into me. " _Fuck_ ," he gasps out, and then makes another noise that makes me think it hurts him pretty badly to talk. He's trembling a little bit, and I up my estimation of broken cheek to  _shattered_.

I pull back just far enough to look at his face. It's starting to color, the broken blood vessels leaking into the skin and darkening it red. I wince, considering the size of the bruise and knowing that within about two hours it's going to be a  _vivid_ collection of black and blue coloring. I can already see it starting to swell a bit. He needs an x-ray to make sure it's not too bad, or at least that it's something that will heal without needing surgery. Why did Bruce even tell us to go back to the base? I should be taking him to Gotham, to Dr.  _Thompkins_. The best I can do for him is ice it, try and keep the swelling down at least a little.

"Come on," I coax, paranoia making me not use his name even though I know the jet is proofed against just about everything. "Once you're sitting I can grab one of the ice bags. It's going to hurt like a bitch, but it'll be better in the long run, you  _know_ that."

I carry Dick over to one of the seats more than he walks, and I carefully get him down and in the straps, just in case. Then I take the few steps needed to get me to the built in medical storage, and grab one of the crushable ice packs. Good enough for now. His breathing is  _way_ too shaky for me to be comfortable with, and the way he grips my wrist when I put the ice to his face tells me it's  _agony_ for him. I grit my teeth and fill my head with the fantasies of what I'm going to do to Kon-El, that little  _bastard_ , for making this happen. I can't hurt Clark, but Kon-El?

I can  _terrify_ him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end! This is the last chapter of the show, and I hope you enjoy. So, here you see the basics of how you end up with the 'no touching' rule between Kon-El and the Owls (until Tim, anyway).

Bruce does reroute us. After what feels like too long holding that ice pack to Dick's face, watching him breathe shallowly and obviously try and manage the agony he's in, our father figure calls. He sounds beyond pissed, but in a tightly controlled way that says he's around other people. I update him on how bad I think it is — pretty fucking bad considering Dick's inability to look unfazed — and he orders me to turn the plane towards Gotham and get him to Dr. Thompkins. Considering Dick doesn't say anything or argue, I think it's a damn good idea.

The second part of the order is the part that I don't agree with.

"You want me to what?" I demand, in a snarl.

"You heard me, Red Hood," Bruce says, in his tone of voice that's a flat command to not argue.

Too fucking bad. "I am not leaving Dick alone! What the hell is at the team's base that's more important than making sure he's alright?" It's not that I don't trust Dr. Thompkins enough to leave Dick with her, because I do, but there's not much that could pry me away from him until I'm sure he's going to be alright. I'm really not used to Dick being injured badly enough to take him out of play — me gutting him doesn't really count; I didn't see the aftermath of that — and I'm self aware enough to know that I'm not coping that well.

He's one of the most dangerous people I know; I only managed to get the better of him because he didn't believe I'd hurt him. Seeing someone else take him down isn't just unnerving, it actually scares me. Seeing him in so much pain he can't talk, isn't even somehow weighing in on this discussion, is nearly terrifying.

"I think I have the damn right to make sure my brother's okay," I hiss, when Bruce doesn't immediately answer my question.

"The base, Jason," he starts, sounding frustrated but letting me know he's somewhere he can actually talk, "has Black Talon, and a Kryptonian. After what just happened I am not willing to leave him alone with Kon-El. I trust him to handle himself, but I don't trust that clone. Drop Nightingale off with our friend, tell her to call me as soon as she has information, and get to the base. One of us is already injured, so let's make sure that doesn't become two. Do you understand me?"

I swallow. "Yeah," I manage, even though every part of me hates the idea of leaving Dick like this. "Alright, got it. Are you heading to Gotham, or what?"

"Not sure yet," Bruce answers, words short and clipped. "Need to have a few conversations. I'll keep the family updated, and as soon as our friend gives me any information, I'll pass it on. I have to go; is Nightingale in any condition to speak, or just listen?"

I glance over at Dick, at the perfect stillness of his body, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and my jaw tightens. "No."

I can almost hear Bruce's teeth grind over the line; can almost taste the fury that burns even brighter in him than in me. "I'll make sure this is paid back in full." I've always known that Bruce is capable of anger on a level that I'm not, not without the help of the Pit anyway. He keeps all of it so tightly controlled, under so many layers, that no one ever realizes how deeply he feels. It took dying, coming back, and all the years before returning to the family to realize it, so no one outside the family has any chance.

"Good. Kon-El?"

There's a long moment of silence, and then Bruce answers, "For now, don't harm him. If that changes, I'll let you know."

"They  _can't_ just get away with this," I snarl. "We all know damn well that the clone bastard  _asked_ to get taken down. He wasn't even  _scratched_ , this is such—"

" _Jason_ ," Bruce snaps, his voice rising and efficiently silencing me. "For  _right now_ , Kon-El is off limits. If or when that changes, I will  _let you know_. I have no intention of allowing this to slide, I wouldn't even if it wasn't  _dangerous_ for our image. Either you will be allowed to harm him, or I will make sure that our revenge is untraceable. For now, don't instigate anything. I  _mean_ that. Get Nightingale to Gotham, then return to the base and make sure Black Talon has backup if needed. That's an order."

He cuts the communication, not giving me any time to respond to him even if I had any kind of argument.

I don't. He's right.

I might  _want_ nothing more than to take Kon-El apart inch by bloody inch for getting Dick hurt, but I know that I can't. We'd almost definitely win a fight with the Ultras, if it came down to it, but that's a hell of a risk. When you go up against things that are that powerful, it doesn't pay to take any kind of risk. Even with the small chance that they get the upper hand, that's way too dangerous. And if we did kill them all, then what?

Whatever people think, I'm not totally  _blind_ to the subtleties of running a team, or something as big as the Crime Syndicate. If we take out the Ultras then that's a massive power gap that gets opened up. Could we fill it? Maybe. But the stress it would put on the rest of the Syndicate would be pretty massive, and the rest of them wouldn't be happy. It would open us to retribution or capture by the heroes, or the governments, and it would weaken the Syndicate in the public's eyes. One of the main reasons that they fear us as much as they do is because they know that together we're all but unbeatable.

But if we start publicly fighting each other? If we bring into the light all of the hatred and mistrust between all the Syndicate members? The grudges, the feuds? Yeah, that would pretty much ruin things.

So I won't go after Kon-El. Not yet.

I trust Bruce to make sure that either we get retribution publicly — and it damn well should be  _violently_ after this — or, if there's something that means we can't, that both of them suffer from something that can't be traced back to us. Luthor is usually willing to pay us for information that will help him hurt Clark in one way or another, as long as he's convinced that what we're giving him is real. And Luthor knows that if he ever tells Ultraman that we're where those bits of information come from, he'll never get another one again. He's invested in taking apart the Syndicate, but not enough that he'd lose our occasional tidbits to do it.

He knows that we're using him to hurt Ultraman just as much as he's using us to do the same thing. Mutual respect, and being based in different cities, takes care of a lot of the issues that could have been a problem between us and Luthor. He might ask why we want this to happen, and we might tell him something vague, but these kind of partnerships are usually best based on not asking too many questions. We offer information, Luthor pays us for it, and we go our separate ways.

Nice and simple.

The only thing I'm wondering is if Kon-El knew this was going to happen. The Ultras aren't actors, not even by normal civilian standards. When it happened, Kon-El looked  _shocked_. Shocked and maybe even a bit frightened. To me, that didn't feel or look like someone who knew what was going to happen.

But then the question is how Clark knew. If Kon-El didn't bring up what we did, if he wasn't angry and looking for revenge, then how did Clark know? The base isn't soundproofed to Kryptonian hearing, so it's possible, if he was  _listening_ , but what are the chances of that? Clark wouldn't have access to our security feeds, there's no way Wally would have said anything, and of course none of us would have tipped him off. Kon-El wouldn't have shown any sign, not with his healing, so… Maybe some kind of scent clung to him? I don't have much an idea what the Kryptonian sense of smell is like, I just know it's pretty severely enhanced. Maybe there was some clue there?

 _Fuck_. It's not making sense in my head, not any of it. I get Clark's response to us hurting Kon-El, because Kryptonians are prideful, arrogant, pieces of  _shit_  that can't take 'no' for an answer, but the rest of it? Kon-El's reaction doesn't make sense, not unless he didn't say anything to Clark, and if he didn't tell his 'father,' how did the bastard know?

Alright, I can't hurt Kon-El, I can't  _touch_ him, but that doesn't mean I can't scare the shit out of him. I don't have to touch him or hurt him to scare him; I'm better than that.

So I just have to drop Dick off with Dr. Thompkins, head back to the base, check in with Tim, and then make sure Kon-El never so much as fucking  _touches_ one of my brothers again. Easy enough.

* * *

Stepping back into the base feels like going on the hunt. I take enough time to make sure that the jet is properly shut down and locked, but after that I tuck my helmet underneath my arm and let the Pit have some of my mind. Not too much, not enough to actually influence me, but enough that it enhances the anger at the back of my skull. I know the balance well enough to use the Pit's influence as a weapon; to  _scare_ Kon-El with it.

I know that the green tint to my eyes freaks people out.

I head into the base, scanning the corridors as I pass them. I glimpse a few of our teammates, but none of them are stupid enough to approach me. Even if they don't know exactly what happened — I'll have to talk to Tim and figure out exactly how much was obvious through the coms — they know that  _something_ happened. It would have been pretty damn hard to miss the mood in the air, and even harder to miss the sudden absence of Dick or the tension I can  _feel_ in everyone.

Kon-El's in the common area, and my gaze fixates on him the second I step in. I notice Tim's frame standing close, and have  _just_ enough spare attention to notice that his stance is more casual than threatening and that he's saying something in a voice too quiet to carry. Then I focus down on Kon-El, who looks stiff and guilty and I have to  _viciously_ restrain the Pit's urge to draw my kryptonite, shove it in his face, and then see how  _he_ likes having a shattered cheekbone.

" _You_ ," I snarl, discarding my helmet to the side and striding towards him. Kon-El's head snaps around, to look at me, and when he sees me coming at him he immediately backpedals and retreats.

"Jason,  _wait_ ," Tim says, but I brush past his grasping fingers and follow Kon-El.

His back hits the far wall, and I get in his face and  _slam_ my left hand next to his head. He flinches a little bit, and I curl my lips to bare my teeth. The low, rumbling,  _snarl_  that leaves my throat is probably one of the deadlier sounds I've ever made, and it makes the Kryptonian  _bastard_  cringe back against the wall. I let the sound linger, let the Pit make my eyes blaze green and scare him with the idea that I'm either magically enhanced or, if he knows anything about me, not all that sane.

He swallows, looks  _nervous_ and it's  _satisfying_. "I—" he starts.

"How  _dare_ you?" I say in that same snarl, not letting him speak. I roll my weight forward, emphasizing that I'm taller than him, and flex the hand I have against the wall into a tight fist. "Couldn't take 'no' for a goddamn answer, you piece of shit  _clone?_  You had to go asking your precious  _dad_ to do your fucking dirty work for you?"

"I didn't," he manages, speaking fast, probably so I'd have more trouble cutting him off. "I swear to God I  _didn't_. I had no idea he was going to—"

"Go on," I snap, leaning a little closer but not enough to touch him.  _Can't_ touch him. "You tell me one  _fucking_ thing I think is a lie and I'll take my time snapping every bone in both your arms,  _Kryptonian_."

Kon-El swallows, looks  _afraid_ , and his eyes dart to the side. Past me, towards Tim, and it almost looks like a plea. As  _if_ my younger brother is going to come to this bastard's defense. As if Tim has  _any_ desire right now but to see the clone broken, bleeding, and  _terrified_. Maybe not as much as me, but he's still an Owl, and Dick is still his brother too. We  _don't_ let things like this go unavenged. Not ever. I'm sure Tim got the same call that I did, the same warning not to touch Kon-El, but abusing technicalities is what we're good at.

I let loose another snarl, deepening my voice to turn it into more of a growl. "You look at  _me_ , clone." His eyes snap back, wide and afraid. "You don't seem to get the  _extremely_ fucking thin ice you're standing on. You have no  _idea_ how much I'd  _love_ to see you bleeding and  _broken_ ," he flinches, "and I'm giving you one fucking chance to tell me the truth and give me a  _single_ reason I shouldn't do exactly that."

He's staring at me, stricken, which feels good but it's not an  _answer_. I need to know what happened, I need to know what the fuck he did to get Dick hurt.

"Jason," Tim breaks in, one of his hands clasping down over my right shoulder, "stop. I already had this conversation; he's telling the truth."

I resist the urge to shake Tim's hand off of me, to put my fist in the clone's face, to make him  _bleed_. "Yeah?" I get out, instead. So Kon-El didn't know it was going to happen. That doesn't explain why it did. It doesn't explain why Dick is drugged all to hell to not feel the pain that had him speechless and  _frozen_. It doesn't explain that  _crack_ of impact, and the way Dick hit the sand and didn't move. The way he  _bled_.

"I don't believe he has the skill to lie to one of us, so  _yes_. Let him go, Jason."

"How about you walk me through it anyway?" I spit at the clone, carefully restraining the furious  _blaze_ of the Pit at the back of my mind. "It better be a  _good_ explanation."

Tim's hand squeezes down. "It was just a comment, he—"

"Let  _him_ talk, T," I snap, cutting my younger brother off.

Kon jerks a little bit, eyes snapping between the two of us. "I—" He cuts off, gaze lingering on Tim.

" _Now_."

"I was distracted," he nearly yelps. " _Shit_ , Kal-El noticed I was distracted by— by you and Nightingale. After," he flushes red, avoiding my eyes, "listening to the two of you last night, I couldn't… He asked me why and I didn't want him to know the real reason so I just—"

My free hand curls to a fist. "You told him Nightingale used kryptonite on you," I finish.

"It wasn't anything more than a single sentence, I swear I didn't know he was going to… I didn't  _know_." His gaze is nearly desperate, and reluctantly I find myself agreeing with Tim. The clone's a piece of shit, but he's telling the truth. "I never meant for Nightingale… It was a mistake."

I carefully straighten up, and take a single step back from the clone. Tim's hand falls away from my shoulder. I chew over my words for a moment. "If it had been on purpose," I settle on saying, my voice staying in the low growl, "you can't  _imagine_ the kind of pain I would have put you in. This  _ever_ happens again, I'll do it anyway. Watch your  _fucking_ mouth."

I turn away, brushing past Tim and not with any real destination in mind other than getting to my helmet. I could use a shower, but I  _have_ to know if Dick's going to be alright. I have to wait for Bruce's call. I can't stand the idea of missing it because I was busy. That  _stings_ to even consider. I can't find out secondhand whether Dick's going to need surgery, or if he'll heal on his own, and how long it will take. I have to know the  _second_ anyone else does; bad enough I'm getting it from Bruce and not straight from Dr. Thompkins.

"I—" Kon's voice raises my shoulders with tension, as I lean down and grab my helmet from the floor. "When it happened, I heard bone crack. Is Nightingale going to be alright?"

Tim answers before I can, in a sharp, pointed tone that I know he took straight from Bruce. "You should pray that he is, for  _your_ sake."

I turn around, helmet in hand, in time to see Kon ask, "If he's not?"

"Then we go for  _you_ first," I snarl, "and your  _dad_  second." I head for the butcher table at the center of the kitchen half of our common area, unable to stomach the idea of sitting, let alone being still. I set my helmet on one of the corners and pull my phone out of my jacket. Flicking it open and to a notepad application is easy enough, and I set it to the side and spare a glance up at Tim before setting to work.

I have to keep busy so I don't  _murder_ Kon-El before we even know whether Dick's going to be alright.

I pull out my main weapons to set on the butcher block and start the long, practiced ritual of cleaning them, checking ammo, and making a list of what Ill need to restock. I track Tim coming in next to me, but don't look up until he's at my elbow. Then his hand flicks out, catching my attention. I pause, watching as his hands move in semi-complicated gestures that I read as American sign language.

_How bad was it?_

I shake my head, clenching my hands at the edge of the table for a moment before straightening up.  _Very,_  I answer. It's really the only recourse when faced with someone with super-hearing. Kon-El doesn't know sign language, I'm  _almost_ positive of that.

Tim moves to press in against my shoulder, his gloved hand touching my wrist for a moment before he pulls away.  _Are you alright?_ he signs, then follows it up with a quick,  _Green_.

My eyes. Right.  _Knew it would scare him_ , I answer.  _Angry, but managing it._

_Owlman?_

I pause, then shake my head and shoot Tim a look. I'm almost positive that my look tells him more than enough, but just in case I sign,  _Furious._

Tim doesn't show whatever reaction he has for a moment, then his lips twist in a thin smirk.  _Good. You get his call?_

I snort and nod, shooting a sharp glance sideways at Kon-El. He's still against the wall, watching us and not making any attempt to leave the room. That's good. If he tries to leave the room I'm going to back him down; there's no way in  _hell_ I'm letting him out of this room until I know if Dick's going to be alright. If he's not, and vengeance is due, I want Kon-El in easy reach. He's a small fish at this point, but taking him down lets us get at Ultraman without interference.

Tim presses his shoulder against mine, leaning in to murmur, "Not  _yet_." Of course Kon-El will hear, but that's vague and threatening enough that him hearing is probably a good thing. Then Tim switches tracks on me completely. "How's your hand?"

"My—" I blink, stare at him for a second, and then look down at my right hand. At the blackened edges of the hole in my glove. "Oh." Right, I reached for kryptonite and got shot by lasers for it, I'd completely forgotten. I unstrap the glove, carefully peeling it off my hand, and swallow back everything but a small tightening of my jaw. The skin on the back of my hand is red and seared, especially in the center, where I'd say it's bad enough to be at least a second degree burn if not a third. The pain only really hits me once I'm looking at it, and even then it's nothing I can't handle.

I flex it, can't hold back a wince, and Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Didn't feel it," I defend, lowering my hand, and Tim catches my wrist and pulls it back up.

"I noticed," he comments with dry sarcasm, head tilted towards my hand and obviously studying it. "Hold still."

"Really? It'll heal on its own, T." Tim doesn't dignify me with a response, keeping his grip on my wrist while he reaches beneath his cape with the other. When he comes out with a small roll of bandages and a tube of burn cream, I snort. "You carry that around with you?" He doesn't answer that either, and he manages to manipulate his one hand — absolutely refusing to take his other hand off my wrist, and honestly I'd probably pull away if he did so I can't  _blame_ him for that — to open the tube and squeeze some onto the back of my hand.

"Take your other glove off and rub that in." I raise an eyebrow,  _look_ at him, and he meets my gaze coolly. "My gloves have  _claws_ , they're hardly suitable for medical. Do it."

I give an irritated huff of breath but raise my other hand to my mouth. I undo the straps with my teeth, then bite the tips of the fingers to tug it off my hand. I throw it on the table next to the other one, and when Tim expectantly looks at me again I roll my eyes and obey his order. I rub the cream into the back of my injured hand, weathering the pain of it, until it's mostly absorbed. Then Tim unceremoniously pushes my hand away and sets to work wrapping my hand with the bandages. He uses both hands, but even with the partial freedom I don't pull away.

He doesn't wrap it very thick, just enough to cover the nastiest parts of the burn, before tucking the ends away and securing them with some kind of glue that he pulls from somewhere within his cape.

"How much do you  _have_ in there?" I ask, peering into the shadows beneath his cape.

"Maybe someday I'll give you a list." The dry sarcasm is back in his voice. Tim would never do that. We all keep our secrets, and one of the ways Tim compensates for not being as physically powerful as Dick, Bruce, and me is by carrying more gear than we do. Some of it is obvious, like the harness of small blades strapped across his chest, but a lot of it is a mystery. There could be just about anything in the small pouches of the bands strapped around his biceps, lower arms, calves, and his left thigh. That's not even mentioning what might be in his actual belt.

Yeah, Tim is by far the most well geared of all of us.

I draw my hand back, flexing and twisting it to make sure that the thin layer of bandages doesn't interfere with my ability to move. They don't. "Thanks, T."

He gives a small nod, tucking away the supplies he's used on me back into the shadows. "I assumed you weren't going to notice until whatever time you next decide to sleep, or if O noticed. I thought I may as well speed up treatment. With that—"

"I know burn care, T." I reach down and grab my gloves, tugging them back on. The pressure against the burn isn't real pleasant, but it isn't nearly bad enough for me to care.

Tim makes a noncommittal noise, and gives a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "Remember to treat the rest of it too, when you've got time. Including what Nightingale did to you."

I roll my eyes, the words to tell Tim that none of it is that bad hovering on the edge of my tongue, but decide to just shake my head instead. "Yeah, sure. You know, you talk like he  _mauled_ me or something."

The raise of Tim's eyebrow is pure Alfred; a slow upwards crawl that I know would be matched with disdain and disbelief if I could see Tim's eyes. "Didn't he? I count the ends of at least three scratches on your neck, plus a half a dozen hickeys and bites, as well as scabbed over puncture wounds in your bottom lip. That's what I can  _see_ , I can only imagine what your back and chest look like, or your legs. I think  _mauled_ is a fairly accurate term."

I shrug, conceding the point.

"Lots of bruising," Kon-El says from across the room, and my gaze snaps over to him, "more scratches and bites." His arms are crossed, and he's clearly uncomfortable and defensive but he seems to have worked past the fear that either of us is going to kill him at a second's notice. Or worse. "How are you  _standing?_ "

I narrow my eyes, staring at him for a second. "Are you kidding?" I glance over at Tim. "Is he kidding?"

"I think he's serious," Tim says, with a tiny smirk and a glance over at the clone.

"Do you not feel pain?" the clone asks, his tone disbelieving but hesitant, like he might actually think that's true.

I consider stringing him along for a second. Then I decide that could probably come back to bite me in the long run. "I feel pain just fine," I tell him. "Your problem is that you  _don't_ , clone. Not much gets past that skin of yours, so when you feel even a  _little_ pain it's like it's the end of the fucking world. We," I flick my hand between Tim and me, "feel it. We live with it. We  _understand_  it. You don't, so it knocks you on your ass every time."

Tim gives a small nod, and a slightly larger smirk. But he doesn't put any of his own thoughts into the conversation. I don't need him to say anything to know; Tim might not be readable by pretty much anyone but that doesn't mean I can't  _feel_ how much he likes being superior to a Kryptonian in a physical, tangible way.

I roll my shoulders in a shrug, and shoot Kon-El a crooked grin that's definitely got way too many teeth in it to be friendly. "This is  _nothing_ , clone. I took apart more than my share of an  _army_  with this; I'm doing a hell of a lot better than just  _standing_." I let the grin turn to a curling snarl, narrow my eyes, and deepen my voice to emphasize the threat. "So how about you sit down and shut the fuck up before I get tired of your questions?"

He cringes just a little bit, but recovers almost instantly. His jaw is tight, and he still looks wary but he's also obviously recovered whatever kind of backbone he's got. He pushes off the wall, straightening up and letting his arms fall to his sides. "You're not going to hurt me.  _Neither_ of you are."

Tim's smirk flicks away like it was never there, and a flash of sharp  _anger_  heightens my focus for a second before I shove it away. Mostly. Losing myself to the Pit isn't going to help, but a little anger is a hell of a motivator. "What makes you think  _that?_ " I demand.

The slight tremble of his voice proves he's not  _totally_ sure that what he's saying is true, but that doesn't stop him from answering, "If either of you were  _allowed_ to hurt me, you would have done it already."

I trade a glance with Tim — clone's not quite as rock-bottom dumb as I thought — and then focus my attention back on Kon-El. "Let's get something straight,  _clone_. If you piss me off enough, it's not going to matter what I've been ordered not to do. And if you think there's a  _damn_ person that would be surprised if I went off the reservation again, you're  _wrong_. They're locked into Owlman's orders;  _I'm_ not."

"That why you don't wear a mask?" It's only Tim's sudden grip at my elbow that stops me lunging forward at the clone. I probably wasn't going to actually get all the way over there before I stopped myself, but a part of me does appreciate the moment to reign myself back in and push the Pit's screaming to the back of my skull.

"Jason," Tim murmurs, a warning and a reminder all at once.

I irritably shake him off and snap, "I  _know_."

"You're lying," Kon-El proclaims. "You wouldn't  _dare_ —"

"Don't you  _fucking_ tell me what I'd dare," I hiss. "So I drop off the face of the Earth for a while once you're dead, big  _fucking_ deal. Done that before. So the Owls tell the world I snapped, tell them I'm a fugitive and that the Syndicate should hunt me down for vengeance. Been  _there_ too. Guess what, you  _bastard?_  Your precious  _dad_ doesn't give enough of a shit about you to start a war with us. He'll take whatever out we offer him to avoid it, so long as it saves him some face. He'll never catch me."

Kon-El is a little paler, a little more unsure of himself, and I offer him a grin I know is a bit more than a little insane looking.

"Kryptonians don't  _scare_ us, clone. We'll tear the two of you  _apart_  before we let you hurt one of us again. So think long and hard about what I'm willing to do, and shut your  _fucking mouth_  before I shove kryptonite down your throat and watch you  _choke_ on it."

He flinches, and when I keep staring at him, keep my snarl and my obvious willingness to fulfill my threat — he doesn't need to know that Bruce would personally  _murder_ me if I did that without at least warning him — he backs down and looks to the side. One of his arms curls protectively up and over his stomach, and I see Tim's mouth flicker in a tiny, satisfied smirk out of the corner of my eye.

I'm pretty sure he's cowed enough not to be a problem, at least not for a while, so I let him loose from my glare. I return to my weapons, and Tim touches my shoulder briefly — just a confirmation, it's not long or firm enough for it to be him wanting my attention — before slipping away. I vaguely track him as he crosses the room to the couches, and the thin square of black metal that's his laptop. He doesn't settle comfortably in, so he isn't expecting Bruce to be long, but he's expecting it to be long enough that he's not willing to just sit and wait.

I'll trust Tim's estimation of time; he knows Bruce's timetable better than I do, and I'm sure that laptop is tracking most if not all of us. I've really given up thinking that I can actually know exactly how much information Tim has, so I just trust that he  _does_ have it.

I keep half an eye on Kon-El as I work on cleaning my weapons and creating my list of things to restock, making sure that he doesn't get it in his head to go off somewhere else in the base. I actually don't know why he's still here; I assume that he's just as hooked on knowing if Dick is going to be alright as we are, and that he knows the fastest way he'll get that information is if he's around the two of us. That's my guess, anyway.

That's fine. It means he's closer if Dick ends up badly — the thought burns through me like fucking wildfire — and we decide to kill him. After, of course, we make him scream loud enough his son of a bitch father can hear him no matter where the bastard currently is. He better fucking pray that Dick makes it out alright, that he's going to heal just  _fine_ , because I don't think he can even imagine the kind of pain we'll put him through before we let him die if Dick's  _not_.

He won't remember his goddamn name when we're done with him.

Finally, when I'm near the end of my ritual and just starting to put my weapons away again, Tim shuts his computer down. He leaves it on the coffee table and heads for me, and I turn my head just enough that I can watch him. It doesn't mean I stop what I'm doing. He comes up next to me and reaches out to touch my elbow. This time it's a tap more than it's just a brush, and that's firm enough that it means he  _does_ want my attention.

I pause, looking over at him, and raise an eyebrow in question.

His hands flick to catch my gaze, and then quickly sign out,  _Bruce is here. Two or three minutes._

I don't catch myself in time to stop the, " _What?_ " that comes out of my mouth, but I swallow back anything past that. With a little difficulty.

Bruce is  _here?_ That either means that he wants first shot at Kon-El, which means Dick is  _not_ doing well, or that he wanted to share the news with us face to face, which also doesn't bode real well. More importantly, it means Bruce took the time to  _come over here_  instead of calling and letting us know the fucking  _second_ he got news from Dr. Thompkins. That pisses me off more than a little bit.

There are other possibilities — maybe he was already headed here, and he hasn't got news yet or didn't until he was practically here already — but none of them are as likely as the first. He's got  _explaining_  to do the moment we're away from Kryptonian ears, and a  _lot_ of it. I'm not having this conversation in fucking sign language; I want to shout and  _yell_ at him for making me wait to find out. Dick is my brother, my partner, and one  _hell_ of a lot more after that. I deserve to  _know_.

It's not like we're official, Everyone knows that we fuck sometimes, and anyone with a pair of eyes can see that Dick is more handsy with me than most other people, but there aren't any words attached to it. The public doesn't know.

Besides, Dick doesn't stay loyal to a single partner, and even if he would I can't be everything he needs. Sometimes he's in the mood to top, and I can't be a bottom for him. Or sometimes he wants to slam someone on their back and ride them, and I can't be that either. What we have is important, and we're  _family_ above everything else, but I'm not deluded enough to think that what we have isn't casual. I don't want to tie him down like that anyway; I don't  _want_ official.

That doesn't change the fact I deserved to know the fucking  _instant_ that Bruce did. The whole family deserves that.

I shove my weapons away with a little less care, fighting back the anger in my skull and the  _green_ twisting around it. I need a clear head for this, at least to start with. I can lose myself to the Pit if I have to, if I can't help it, but  _damn it_ I am not starting that way.

Tim stays by my side, turned sideways. His head is mostly tilted towards me, but I know that he's standing the way he is because it allows his peripheral vision to catch both Kon-El's spot against the wall, and the arch that's the most likely entrance that Bruce will come in through. The one to the garage.

I've got just my main few weapons still on the table when Tim shifts, and I turn my head to track his movement. Then my gaze flicks over to the door, and the sweep of dark grey metal that marks Bruce's stride. He's heading for the two of us, and I turn halfway to meet him as I shove my knife into the sheath on my thigh and then reach for my last two guns. I push them into their spots at the small of my back as he stops in front of us. Tim grabs my phone from the table near his elbow and tosses it to me in an underhanded throw, which I easily catch.

I focus on Bruce the second after I've tucked my phone away inside my pocket.

His head tilts just enough that I read it as him glancing up at Kon-El, and I can see his jaw tighten a little bit. It doesn't look like the  _fury_ that I know would be in his stance if Dick wasn't more or less alright, and that eases me out a touch. Tim tracks the movement too, I can tell, but doesn't make any comments. Bruce looks like he hasn't taken the time to clean up from the battle; there's still a scorch mark across his armor, high on his left shoulder and clearly a glancing shot that didn't do any damage. He's still got dried blood on his gloves too, staining the metal a rusty color and soaked into the reinforced fabric between.

He refocuses on the two of us, and then fully on Tim. I see his hands move, spelling out,  _What we talked about?_

Great; I always love references to conversations that I wasn't a part of.

 _He didn't know,_  Tim answers.  _It was a stupid mistake; we've scared him._  A pause, and then he asks,  _Nightingale?_

Bruce gives a small nod, looks over at me as he signs,  _He'll heal. Details when there's no audience_.

Then he's moving, sweeping around Tim's back and heading for Kon-El. We both turn to watch; how could we  _not?_

The clone freaks out a little bit, pressing back against the wall for a moment and then snarling. I can see the fear in his eyes, mixing with a desperate anger, and I can feel my mouth twist into a small grin. Tim gives a tiny smirk instead, but that's more than enough reaction for me to know he's just as satisfied with what's about to happen as I am. Maybe I don't get to hurt Kon-El myself, maybe  _that's_ a line that we get retribution for, but  _Bruce_ isn't bound by the same rules that we are. Ultraman wouldn't  _dare_ go after Bruce for something this small.

Bruce doesn't pause, and the clone, stupid little  _shit_ , throws the first punch.

I watch Bruce duck to the side with an easy grace, and see the coil of his body before his left fist slams into Kon-El's gut. By the rush of expelled air, and the surprised widening of the clone's eyes, I know that Bruce is using at least some of the enhanced strength that his suit was built to mimic. It's not enough to go toe to toe with Ultraman, but for a half-breed clone? It's  _more_ than enough.

His gauntlet wraps around Kon-El's throat, dragging him forward and then  _slamming_ him back against the wall. He automatically grasps at the grip, mouth twisted in a grimace of pain. Bruce drags him up the wall, pulling his feet off the ground and bringing him up to eye level.

" _Look_ at me, Kon-El." The tone he uses is cold threat, and it gets the clone's attention. His eyes are a different shade of blue than any of ours, and none of us would  _ever_ look as frightened as he does right now. We're  _better_ than that. "If you  _ever_ get one of my Talons hurt again, I will put you through pain you can't even  _imagine_." His hand tightens, and I can hear Kon-El gasp, see his legs jerk in instinctive struggle. "Nightingale will heal, and when he resumes control of this team you will follow his orders. Until then, Black Talon has command, and you will follow him  _just as loyally_. Disobedience endangers the team, and that will  _not_  be tolerated. Am I understood?"

Kon-El manages a jerky nod, and Bruce presses a little closer.

"If you ever  _touch_ one of my Talons again, Kon-El, if you  _ever_ press your attention where it isn't wanted, any of them have my  _full_ permission to do absolutely anything they want to you. So long as you're breathing when they're done."

My grin gets a little wider, and Kon-El's eyes widen.

"My father—" he gets out, before choking off with a sharp sound of pain. Bruce lets go, and my question of what happened is almost immediately answered as the clone collapses to his hands and knees, and Bruce turns enough to see the glow of kryptonite in his right hand.

"Your  _father_ ," Bruce answers, "is  _just_ intelligent enough to understand that the health of one half-breed, flawed,  _clone_ , is not important enough for him to risk losing my support.  _I_ run the Crime Syndicate, Kon-El, and without my aid and backing your  _father_ would have long since been in a coffin or a cell. Arrogance aside, he knows that."

Bruce's foot snaps out, knocking Kon-El fully to the ground with a kick to his side, and I can hear the crack of breaking bone. Kon-El gives a shout of pain, left arm recoiling to cover his side and his legs drawing up a bit. Defensive, in pain, and god it feels  _good_ to see him in even a fraction of the agony that Dick was in.

Bruce crouches down and reaches out, grabbing Kon-El by his jaw and dragging him up a few inches. His claws split skin, and I can see the wet glint of blood as it beads to the surface of the scratches. "You're on thin ice, Kon-El. You do  _anything_ I disapprove of, and it shatters. Some of Luthor's genes must be in there, and I  _know_ you're smarter than your father. If you touch one of my Talons, they'll take you apart. If you  _harm_ one of my Talons,  _I_ will take you apart and  _then_ let them have their own chance. If your  _father_ injures one of my Talons again, you will  _die_ , Kon-El. Slowly, painfully, and when I do finally kill you it will feel like a mercy.  _If_ I don't simply let you die of your injuries."

He flicks the clone's head down, and traces his claws down the side of his neck hard enough to leave lines of blood in their wake. Kon-El grits his teeth, shudders, and squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn't make a sound. Until Bruce sinks his claws into the meat of his shoulder, and then he arches and cries out.

" _Look_  at me," Bruce hisses, and Kon-El does it with wide, scared eyes that aren't even angry anymore, just terrified out of his fucking mind. "Do you  _understand_ , Kon-El?"

"Yes," the clone gasps, twitching and shuddering for a second time. "I understand, I won't—  _Shit_ , I won't touch any of them, I swear."

Bruce straightens up, standing from his crouch and pulling his claws from Kon-El's shoulder none too gently. Then he deliberately tucks the piece of kryptonite away, and I can see the clone relax against the floor. Breathing deeply, with his one hand still pressed down across his side.

"Good," Bruce answers, voice short and final. Then he looks to the two of us, the slice of revealed jaw not showing anything obvious. I can read slight satisfaction off of him, but without being closer, or seeing more of his face, that's as much as I get. "Red Hood, Black Talon, both of you with me. We have a few things to discuss."

I snag my helmet as Tim immediately moves forward, and follow him just a moment later.

That was good to watch. The Pit has retreated to the back of my mind again, my anger with it, and there's a lingering satisfaction created by the sight of the clone's blood and the sound of his pain. I might not even yell at Bruce for not immediately telling us that Dick's going to be alright, not after that. I was expecting Bruce to scare the hell out of Kon-El, but I wasn't expecting him to actually  _hurt_ the clone. Not that badly, anyway.

Relatively, this isn't much. But to a Kryptonian like Kon-El, it's a pretty big chunk of damage.

It's good enough, and I'm pretty sure that the bastard of a clone won't go up against us again. Not for a long time, anyway. And if he does, I know that Bruce is fully on board for us to take him down  _hard_. Having his support behind us is one hell of a promise.

It's enough to get me through until Dick heals. Then, we'll see.


End file.
